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Copyright  1922 


Copyright  1927 
Pascal  Covici,  Publisher,  Inc. 


PREFACE 

It  was  a  day  in  the  spring  of  1921.  Dismal  shadows, 
really  Hechtian  shadows,  filled  the  editorial  "coop"  in  The 
Chicago  Daily  News  building.  Outside  the  rain  was  slanting 
down  in  the  way  that  Hecht' s  own  rain  always  slants.  In 
walked  Hecht.  He  had  been  divorced  from  our  staff  for  some 
weeks,  and  had  married  an  overdressed,  blatant  creature  called 
Publicity.  Well,  and  how  did  he  like  Publicity?  The  answer 
was  written  in  his  sullen  eyes;  it  was  written  on  his  furrowed 
Drow,  and  in  the  savage  way  he  stabbed  the  costly  furniture 
with  his  cane.  The  alliance  with  Publicity  was  an  unhappy 
one.  Good  pay?  Oh  yes,  preposterous  pay.  Luncheons 
with  prominent  persons?  Limitless  luncheons.  Easy  work, 
short  hours,  plenteous  taxis,  hustling  associates,  glittering 
results.  But — but  he  couldn't  stand  it,  that  was  all.  He  just 
unaccountably,  illogically,  and  damnably  couldn't  stand  it. 
if  he  had  to  attend  another  luncheon  and  eat  sweet-breads  and 
peach  melba  and  listen  to  some  orator  pronounce  a  speech 
ic,  Hecht,  had  written,  and  hear  some  Magnate  outline  a  cam 
paign  which  he,  Hecht,  had  invented.  .  .  .  and  that  wasn't  all, 
either.  .  .  .  Gentlemen,  he  just  couldn't  stand  it. 

Well,  the  old  job  was  open. 

Ben  shuddered.  It  wasn't  the  old  job  that  he  was  think 
ing  about.  He  had  a  new  idea.  Something  different.  Maybe 
impossible. 

And  here  followed  specifications  for  "One  Thousand 
and  One  Afternoons."  The  title,  I  believe,  came  later,  along 
with  details  like  the  salary.  Hang  the  salary!  I  doubt  if  Ben 
even  heard  the  figure  that  was  named.  He  merely  said 
"Uh-huh!"  and  proceeded  to  embellish  his  dream — his  dream 
of  a  department  more  brilliant,  more  artistic,  truer  (I  think  he 
said  truer),  broader  and  better  than  anything  in  the  American 
press;  a  literary  thriller,  a  knock-out.  .  .  .  and  so  on. 

So  much  for  the  mercenary  spirit  in  which  "One  Thousand 
and  One  Afternoons"  was  conceived. 


A  week  or  so  later  Ben  came  in  again,  bringing  actual 
manuscript  for  eight  or  ten  stories.  He  was  haggard  but  very 
happy.  It  was  clear  that  he  had  sat  up  nights  with  those  sto 
ries.  He  thumbed  them  over  as  though  he  hated  to  let  them 
go.  They  were  the  first  fruits  of  his  Big  Idea— the  idea  that 
just  under  the  edge  of  the  news  as  commonly  understood, 
the  news  often  flatly  and  unimaginatively  told,  lay  life; 
that  in  this  urban  life  there  dwelt  the  stuff  of  literature,  not 
hidden  in  remote  places,  either,  but  walking  the  downtown 
streets,  peering  from  the  windows  of  sky  scrapers,  sunning  it* 
self  in  parks  and  boulevards.  He  was  going  to  be  its  interpre 
ter.  His  was  to  be  the  lens  throwing  city  life  into  new  colors, 
his  the  microscope  revealing  its  contortions  in  life  and  death. 
It  was  no  newspaper  dream  at  all,  in  fact.  It  was  an  artist's 
dream.  And  it  had  begun  to  come  true.  Here  were  the 
stories.  .  .  .  Hoped  I'd  like  'em. 

"One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons"  were  launched 
in  June,  1 92 1 .  They  were  presented  to  the  public  as  journal 
ism  extraordinary;  journalism  that  invaded  the  realm  of 
literature,  where  in  large  part,  journalism  really  dwells. 
They  went  out  backed  by  confidence  in  the  genius  of  Ben 
Hecht.  This,  if  you  please,  took  place  three  months  before 
the  publication  of  "Erik  Dorn,"  when  not  a  few  critics  "dis 
covered"  Hecht.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  first  full 
release  of  Hecht's  literary  powers  was  in  "One  Thousand  and 
One  Afternoons."  The  sketches  themselves  reveal  his  cre 
ative  delight  in  them;  they  ring  with  the  happiness  of  a  spirit 
at  last  free  to  tell  what  it  feels;  they  teem  with  thought  and 
impressions  long  treasured ;  they  are  a  recital  of  songs  echoing 
the  voices  of  Ben's  own  city  and  performed  with  a  virtuosity 
granted  to  him  alone.  They  announced  to  a  Chicago  audience 
which  only  half  understood  them  the  arrival  of  a  prodigy 
whose  precise  significance  is  still  unmeasured. 

"Erik  Dorn"  was  published.  "Gargoyles"  took  form. 
Hecht  wrote  a  play  in  eight  days.  He  experimented  with  a 


long  manuscript  to  be  begun  and  finished  within  eighteen 
hours.  "One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons"  continued  to 
pour  out  of  him.  His  letter-box  became  too  small  for  his  mail. 
He  was  bombarded  with  eulogies,  complaints,  arguments, 
"tips,"  and  solicitations.  His  clipping  bureau  rained  upon  him 
violent  reviews  of  "Dorn."  His  publishers  submerged  him 
with  appeals  for  manuscript.  Syndicates  wired  him,  with 
"name  your  own  terms."  New  York  editors  tried  to  steal 
him.  He  continued  to  write  "One  Thousand  and  One  After 
noons."  He  became  weary,  nervous  and  bilious;  he  spent 
four  days  in  bed,  and  gave  up  tobacco.  Nothing  stopped 
"One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons."  One  a  day,  one  a 
day!  Did  the  flesh  fail,  and  topics  give  out,  and  the  type 
writer  became  an  enemy?  No  matter.  The  venturesome 
undertaking  of  writing  good  newspaper  sketches,  one  per  diem, 
had  to  be  carried  out.  We  wondered  how  he  did  it.  We  saw 
him  in  moods  when  he  almost  surrendered,  when  the  strain  of 
juggling  with  novels,  plays  and  with  contracts,  revises,  ad- 
blurbs,  sketches,  nearly  finished  "One  Thousand  and  One 
Afternoon."  But  a  year  went  by,  and  through  all  that  year 
there  had  not  been  an  issue  of  The  Chicago  Dally  News  without 
a  Ben  Hecht  sketch.  And  still  the  manuscripts  dropped  down 
regularly  on  the  editor's  desk.  Comedies,  dialogues,  homilies, 
one-act  tragedies,  storiettes,  sepia  panels,  word-etchings, 
satires,  tone-poems,  fuges,  bourrees, — something  different 
every  day.  Rarely  anything  hopelessly  out  of  key.  Stories 
seemingly  born  out  of  nothing,  and  written — to  judge  by_ 
the  typing — in  ten  minutes,  but  in  reality,  as  a  rule,  based 
upon  actual  incident,  developed  by  a  period  of  soaking  in  the  l 
peculiar  chemicals  of  Ben's  nature,  and  written  with  much 
sophistication  in  the  choice  of  words.  There  were  dramatic 
studies  often  intensely  subjective,  lit  with  the  moods  of  Ben 
himself,  not  of  the  things  dramatized.  There  were  self-revela 
tions  characteristically  frank  and  provokingly  debonaire. 
There  was  comment  upon  everything  under  the  sun;  assaults 


A  week  or  so  later  Ben  came  in  again,  bringing  actual 
manuscript  for  eight  or  ten  stories.  He  was  haggard  but  very 
happy.  It  was  clear  that  he  had  sat  up  nights  with  those  sto 
ries.  He  thumbed  them  over  as  though  he  hated  to  let  them 
go.  They  were  the  first  fruits  of  his  Big  Idea— the  idea  that 
just  under  the  edge  of  the  news  as  commonly  understood, 
the  news  often  flatly  and  unimaginatively  told,  lay  life; 
that  in  this  urban  life  there  dwelt  the  stuff  of  literature,  not 
hidden  in  remote  places,  either,  but  walking  the  downtown 
streets,  peering  from  the  windows  of  sky  scrapers,  sunning  it 
self  in  parks  and  boulevards.  He  was  going  to  be  its  interpre 
ter.  His  was  to  be  the  lens  throwing  city  life  into  new  colors, 
his  the  microscope  revealing  its  contortions  in  life  and  death. 
It  was  no  newspaper  dream  at  all,  in  fact.  It  was  an  artist's 
dream.  And  it  had  begun  to  come  true.  Here  were  the 
stories.  .  .  .  Hoped  I'd  like  'em. 

"One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons"  were  launched 
in  June,  1 92 1 .  They  were  presented  to  the  public  as  journal 
ism  extraordinary;  journalism  that  invaded  the  realm  of 
literature,  where  in  large  part,  journalism  really  dwells. 
They  went  out  backed  by  confidence  in  the  genius  of  Ben 
Hecht.  This,  if  you  please,  took  place  three  months  before 
the  publication  of  "Erik  Dorn,"  when  not  a  few  critics  "dis 
covered"  Hecht.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  first  full 
release  of  Hecht's  literary  powers  was  in  "One  Thousand  and 
One  Afternoons."  The  sketches  themselves  reveal  his  cre 
ative  delight  in  them;  they  ring  with  the  happiness  of  a  spirit 
at  last  free  to  tell  what  it  feels;  they  teem  with  thought  and 
impressions  long  treasured;  they  are  a  recital  of  songs  echoing 
the  voices  of  Ben's  own  city  and  performed  with  a  virtuosity 
granted  to  him  alone.  They  announced  to  a  Chicago  audience 
which  only  half  understood  them  the  arrival  of  a  prodigy 
whose  precise  significance  is  still  unmeasured. 

"Erik  Dorn"  was  published.  "Gargoyles"  took  form. 
Hecht  wrote  a  play  in  eight  days.  He  experimented  with  a 


long  manuscript  to  be  begun  and  finished  within  eighteen 
hours.  "One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons"  continued  to 
pour  out  of  him.  His  letter-box  became  too  small  for  his  mail. 
He  was  bombarded  with  eulogies,  complaints,  arguments, 
"tips,"  and  solicitations.  His  clipping  bureau  rained  upon  him 
violent  reviews  of  "Dorn."  His  publishers  submerged  him 
with  appeals  for  manuscript.  Syndicates  wired  him,  with 
"name  your  own  terms."  New  York  editors  tried  to  steal 
him.  He  continued  to  write  "One  Thousand  and  One  After 
noons."  He  became  weary,  nervous  and  bilious;  he  spent 
four  days  in  bed,  and  gave  up  tobacco.  Nothing  stopped 
"One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons."  One  a  day,  one  a 
day!  Did  the  flesh  fail,  and  topics  give  out,  and  the  type 
writer  became  an  enemy?  No  matter.  The  venturesome 
undertaking  of  writing  good  newspaper  sketches,  one  per  diem, 
had  to  be  carried  out.  We  wondered  how  he  did  it.  We  saw 
him  in  moods  when  he  almost  surrendered,  when  the  strain  of 
juggling  with  novels,  plays  and  with  contracts,  revises,  ad- 
blurbs,  sketches,  nearly  finished  "One  Thousand  and  One 
Afternoon."  But  a  year  went  by,  and  through  all  that  year 
there  had  not  been  an  issue  of  The  Chicago  Daily  News  without 
a  Ben  Hecht  sketch.  And  still  the  manuscripts  dropped  down 
regularly  on  the  editor's  desk.  Comedies,  dialogues,  homilies, 
one-act  tragedies,  storiettes,  sepia  panels,  word -etchings, 
satires,  tone-poems,  fuges,  bourrees, — something  different 
every  day.  Rarely  anything  hopelessly  out  of  key.  Stories 
seemingly  born  out  of  nothing,  and  written — to  judge  by__ 
the  typing — in  ten  minutes,  but  in  reality,  as  a  rule,  based 
upon  actual  incident,  developed  by  a  period  of  soaking  in  the  l 
peculiar  chemicals  of  Ben's  nature,  and  written  with  much 
sophistication  in  the  choice  of  words.  There  were  dramatic 
studies  often  intensely  subjective,  lit  with  the  moods  of  Ben 
himself,  not  of  the  things  dramatized.  There  were  self-revela 
tions  characteristically  frank  and  provokingly  debonaire. 
There  was  comment  upon  everything  under  the  sun;  assaults 


upon  all  the  idols  of  antiquity,  of  mediaevalism,  of  neo-boob- 
ism.  There  were  raw  chunks  of.  philosophy,  delivered  with 
gusto  and  sometimes  with  inaccuracy.  There  were  subtle 
jabs  at  well-established  Babbitry.  And  besides,  of  the 
thousand  and  one  Hechts  visible  in  the  sketches,  there  were 
several  that  appear  rarely,  if  at  all,  in  his  novels:  The  whimsi 
cal  Hecht,  sailing  jocosely  on  the  surface  of  life;  the  witty 
Hecht,  flinging  out  novel  word-combinations,  slang  and  snappy 
endings;  Hecht  the  child-lover  and  animal-lover,  with  a  spe 
cial  tenderness  for  dogs;  Hecht  the  sympathetic,  betraying  his 
pity  for  the  aged,  the  forgotten,  the  forlorn.  In  the  novels  he 
is  one  of  his  selves,  in  the  sketches  he  is  many  of  them.  Perhaps 
this  is  why  he  officially  spoke  slightingly  of  them  at  times, 
why  he  walked  in  some  days,  flung  down  a  manuscript,  and 
said:  "Here's  a  rotten  story."  Yet  it  must  be  that  he  found 
pleasure  in  playing  the  whole  scale,  in  hopping  from  the  G- 
string  to  the  E-,  in  surprising  his  public  each  day  with  a  new 
whim  or  a  recently  discovered  broken  image.  I  suspect,  any 
how,  that  he  delighted  in  making  his  editor  stare  and  fumble 
in  the  Dictionary  of  Taboos. 

Ben  will  deny  most  of  this.  He  denies  everything.  It 
doesn't  matter.  It  doesn't  even  matter  much,  Ben,  that  your 
typing  was  sometimes  so  blind  or  that  your  spelling  was  occa 
sionally  atrocious,  or  that  it  took  three  proof-readers  and  a 
Library  of  Universal  Knowledge  to  check  up  your  historical 

allusions. 

*      #      *      * 

The  preface  is  proving  horribly  inadequate.  It  is  not  at 
all  what  Ben  wants.  It  does  not  seem  possible  to  support  his 
theory  that  "One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons,"  springing 
from  a  literary  passion  so  authentic  and  continuing  so  long 
with  a  fervor  and  variety  unmatched  in  newspaper  writing, 
are  hack-work,  done  for  a  meal  ticket.  They  must  have  had 
the  momentum  of  a  strictly  artistic  inspiration  and  gained  fur 
ther  momentum  from  the  need  of  expression,  from  pride  in 


the  subtle  use  of  words,  from  an  ardent  interest  in  the  city 
and  its  human  types.  Yes,  they  are  newspaper  work;  they 
are  the  writings  of  a  reporter  emancipated  from  the  assignment 
book  and  the  copy-desk;  a  reporter  gone  to  the  heaven  of  re 
porters,  where  they  write  what  they  jolly  well  please  and  get 
it  printed  too!  But  the  sketches  are  also  literature  of  which 
I  think  Ben  cannot  be  altogether  ashamed;  else  why  does  he 
print  them  in  a  book,  and  how  could  Mr.  Rosse  be  moved  to 
make  the  striking  designs  with  which  the  book  is  embellished? 
Quite  enough  has  been  said.  The  author,  the  newspaper 
editor,  the  proof-readers  and  revisers  have  done  their  utmost 
with  "One  Thousand  and  One  Afternoons."  The  prefacer 
confesses  failure.  It  is  the  turn  of  the  reader.  He  may  welcome 
the  sketches  in  book  form;  he  may  turn  scornfully  from  them 
and  leave  them  to  moulder  in  the  stock-room  of  Messrs. 
Covici-McGee.  To  paraphrase  an  old  comic  opera  lyric: 

"You  never  can   tell  about  a   reader; 

Perhaps  that's  why  we  think  them  all  so  nice. 

You  never  find  two  alike  at  any  one  time 

And  you  never  find  one  alike  twice. 

You're  never  very  certain   that   they   read  you, 

And  you're  often  very  certain  that  they  don't. 

Though  an  author  fancy  still  that  he  has  the  strongest  will 

It's  the  reader  has  the  strongest  won't. 

Yet  I  think  that  the  book  will  succeed.  It  may  succeed 
so  far  that  Mr.  Hecht  will  hear  some  brazen  idiots  remarking: 
"I  like  it  better  than  'Dorn'  or  'Gargoyles'.*'  Yes,  just  that 
ruinous  thing  may  happen.  But  if  it  does  Ben  cannot  blame 
his  editor. 

HENRY  JUSTIN  SMITH. 
Chicago,  July  1,  1922 


CONTENTS 


Page 


A  Self-Made  Man 44.  v 

An  Iowa  Humoresque 21  Ov 

An  Old  Audience  Speaks 250 

Clocks  and  Owl  Cars 201 

Confessions 206 

Coral,  Amber  and  Jade 106 

^Coeur  De  Lion  and  The  Soup  and  Fish 56 

Dapper  Pete  and  The  Sucker  Play .64 

Dead  Warrior 239 

Don  Quixote  and  His  Last  Windmill      . 31 

"Fan  Ta  Migl" 93 

Fanny    ., 19 

Fantastic  Lollypops  . 97 

Fog  Patterns 27 

Grass  Figures 285 

Ill-Humoresque 277 

Jazz  Band  Impressions .      .223 

!  Letters 193 

Meditation  in  E  Minor 110 

Michigan  Avenue 52 

^Mishkin's  Minyon 254 

'Mottka 89 

Mr.  Winkelberg 39 

Mrs.  Rodjezke's  Last  Job 181 

Mrs.  Sardotopolis    Evening  Off 140 

Night  Diary 227 

"  Nirvana 127 

Notes  For  A  Tragedy 101 

~On  A  Day  Like  This 218 

Ornaments 153 

Pandora's  Box 273 

Pitzela's  Son .269 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Queen  Bess*  Feast 185' 

Ripples 265 

Satraps  At  Play 136 

Schopenhauer's  Son 161 

Sergt.  Kuzick's  Waterloo 235 

Sociable  Gamblers 260 

Ten-Cent  Wedding  Rings .      .115 

The  Auctioneers  Wife 22 

The  Dagger  Venus 189 

The  Exile 214 

The  Great  Traveler 146 

The  Indestructible  Masterpiece 131 

The  Lake .   231 

The  Little  Fop "'.     .      85 

The  Man  From  Yesterday .     .    169 

The  Man  Hunt 35 

The  Man  With  A  Question 281    |NO 

The  Mother 197 

vifhe  Pig      ...... 80 

The  Snob  .  v 72 

The  Soul  of  Sing  Lee 177 

The  Sybarite 60 

The  Tattooer 242 

The  Thing  In  The  Dark 246 

The  Watch  Fixer 157 

The  Way  Home 76 

Thumbnail  Lotharios 1  73 

Thumbs  Up  and  Down 149 

To  Bert  Williams 48 

Vagabondia 123 

Waterfront  Fancies 68 

Where  The  "Blues"  Sound 119 

World  Conquerors 165 


ATHOUSM1D 

ACID  •  one 

AFTeRDOOTB 
in-CHICACO 


FANNY 

Why  did  Fanny  do  this?  The  judge  would  like  to  know. 
The  judge  would  like  to  help  her.  The  judge  says:  "Now, 
Fanny,  tell  me  all  about  it.** 

All  about  it,  all  about  it!  Fanny's  stoical  face  stares  at 
the  floor.  If  Fanny  had  words.  But  Fanny  has  no  words. 
Something  heavy  in  her  heart,  something  vague  and  heavy  in 
her  thought — these  are  all  that  Fanny  has. 

Let  the  policewoman's  records  show.  Three  years  ago 
Fanny  came  to  Chicago  from  a  place  called  Piano.  Red- 
cheeked  and  black-haired,  vivid-eyed  and  like  an  ear  of  ripe 
corn  dropped  in  the  middle  of  State  and  Madison  streets, 
Fanny  came  to  the  city. 

Ah,  the  lonely  city,  with  its  crowds  and  its  lonely  lights. 
The  lonely  buildings  busy  with  a  thousand  lonelinesses.  People 
laughing  and  hurrying  along,  people  eager-eyed  for  something; 
summer  parks  and  streets  white  with  snow,  the  city  moon  like 
a  distant  window,  pretty  gewgaws  in  the  stores — these  are  a 
part  of  Fanny's  story. 

The  judge  wants  to  know.  Fanny's  eyes  look  up.  A 
dog  takes  a  kick  like  this,  with  eyes  like  this,  large,  dumb  and 
brimming  with  pathos.  The  dog's  master  is  a  mysterious  and 
inexplicable  dispenser  of  joys  and  sorrows.  His  caresses  and 
his  beatings  are  alike  mysterious;  their  reasons  seldom  to  be 
discerned,  never  fully  understood. 

Sometimes  in  this  court  where  the  sinners  are  haled, 
where  "poised  and  prim  and  particular,  society  stately  sits," 
his  honor  has  a  moment  of  confusion.  Eyes  lift  themselves 
to  him,  eyes  dumb  and  brimming  with  pathos.  Eyes  stare  out 
of  sordid  faces,  evil  faces,  wasted  faces  and  say  something 
not  admissible  as  evidence.  Eyes  say:  "I  don't  know,  I  don't 
know.  What  is  it  all  about?" 

These  are  not  to  be  confused  with  the  eyes  that  plead 
shrewdly  for  mercy,  with  eyes  that  feign  dramatic  naivetes 
and  offer  themselves  like  primping  little  penitents  to  his  honor. 

19 


His  honor  knows  them  fairly  well.  And  understands  them. 
They  are  eyes  still  bargaining  with  life. 

But  Fanny's  eyes.  Yes,  the  judge  would  like  to  know. 
A  vagueness  comes  into  his  precise  mind.  He  half-hears  the 
familiar  accusation  that  the  policeman  drones,  a  terribly  matter- 
of-fact  drone. 

Another  raid  on  a  suspected  flat.  Routine,  routine.  Evil 
has  its  eternal  root  in  the  cities.  A  tireless  Satan,  bored  with 
the  monotony  of  his  role;  a  tireless  Justice,  bored  with  the 
routine  of  tears  and  pleadings,  lies  and  guilt. 

There  is  no  story  in  all  this.  Once  his  honor,  walking 
home  from  a  banquet,  looked  up  and  noticed  the  stars.  Mean 
ingless,  immutable  stars.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  by 
looking  at  them.  They  were  mysteries  to  be  dismissed.  Like 
the  mystery  of  Fanny's  eyes.  Meaningless,  immutable  eyes. 
They  do  not  bargain.  .  Yet  the  world  stares  out  of  them.  The 
face  looks  dumbly  up  at  a  judge. 

No  defense.  The  policeman's  drone  has  ended  and 
Fanny  says  nothing.  This  is  difficult  Because  his  honor 
knows  suddenly  there  is  a  defense.  A  monstrous  defense. 
Since  there  are  always  two  sides  to  everything.  Yes,  what 
is  the  other  side?  His  honor  would  like  to  know.  Tell  it, 
Fanny.  About  the  crowds,  streets,  buildings,  lights,  about 
the  whirligig  of  loneliness,  about  the  humpty-dumpty  clutter 
of  longings.  And  then  explain  about  the  summer  parks  and 
the  white  snow  and  the  moon  window  in  the  sky.  Throw  in 
a  poignantly  ironical  dissertation  on  life,  on  its  uncharted 
aimlessness,  and  speak  like  Sherwood  Anderson  about  the 
desires  that  stir  in  the  heart.  Speak  like  Remy  de  Gourmont 
and  Dostoevsky  and  Stevie  Crane,  like  Schopenhauer  and 
Dreiser  and  Isaiah;  speak  like  all  the  great  questioners  whose 
tongues  have  wagged  and  whose  hearts  have  burned  with 
questions.  His  honor  will  listen  bewilderedly  and,  perhaps, 
only  perhaps,  understand  for  a  moment  the  dumb  pathos  of 
your  eyes. 

20 


As  it  is,  you  were  found,  as  the  copper  who  reads  the 
newspapers  puts  it,  in  a  suspected  flat.  A  violation  of  section 
2012  of  the  City  Code.  Thirty  days  in  the  Bastile,  Fanny. 
Unless  his  honor  is  feeling  good. 

These  eyes  lifted  to  him  will  ask  him  questions  on  his 
way  home  from  a  banquet  some  night. 

"How  old  are  you?" 

•Twenty." 

"Make  it  twenty-two,"  his  honor  smiles.  "And  you  have 
nothing  to  say?  About  how  you  happened  to  get  into  this 
sort  of  thing?  You  look  like  a  good  girl.  Although  looks  are 
often  deceiving." 

"I  went  there  with  him,"  says  Fanny  And  she  points 
to  a  beetle-browed  citizen  with  an  unshaven  face.  A  quaint 
Don  Juan,  indeed. 

"Ever  see  him  before?" 

A  shake  of  the  head.  Plain  case.  And  yet  his  honor 
hesitates.  His  honor  feels  something  expand  in  his  breast 
Perhaps  he  would  like  to  rise  and  holding  forth  his  hand  utter 
a  famous  plagiarism  —  "Go  and  sin  no  more."  He  chews  a 
pen  and  sighs,  instead. 

"I'll  give  you  another  chance,"  he  says.  "The  next  time 
it'll  be  jail.  Keep  this  in  mind.  If  you're  brought  in  again, 
no  excuses  will  go.  Call  the  next  case." 

Now  one  can  follow  Fanny.  She  walks  out  of  the  court 
room.  The  street  swallows  her.  Nobody  in  the  crowds  knows 
what  has  happened.  Fanny  is  anybody  now.  Still,  one  may 
follow.  Perhaps  something  will  reveal  itself,  something  will 
add  an  illuminating  touch  to  the  incident  of  the  courtroom. 

There  is  only  this.  Fanny  pauses  in  front  of  a  drug-store 
window.  The  crowds  clutter  by.  Fanny  stands  looking, 
without  interest,  into  the  window.  There  is  a  little  mirror 
inside.  The  city  tumbles  by.  The  city  is  interested  in 
something  vastly  complicated. 

Staring  into  the  little  mirror,  Fanny  sighs  and— powders 
her  nose. 

21 


THE  AUCTIONEER'S  WIFE 


An  auctioneer  must  have  a  compelling  manner.  He  must 
be  gabby  and  stentorian,  witheringly  sarcastic  and  plaintively 
cajoling.  He  must  be  able  to  detect  the  faintest  symptoms  of 
avarice  and  desire  in  the  blink  of  an  eyelid,  in  the  tilt  of  a 
head.  Behinti  his  sing-song  of  patter  as  he  knocks  down  a 
piece  of  useless  bric-a-brac  he  must  be  able  to  remain  cool, 
remain  calculating,  remain  like  a  hawk  prepared  to  pounce 
upon  his  prey.  Passion  for  him  must  be  no  more  than  a 
mask ;  anger,  sorrow,  despair,  ecstasy  no  more  than  the  devices 
of  salesmanship. 

But  more  than  all  this,  an  auctioneer  must  know  the 
magic  password  into  the  heart  of  the  professional  or  amateur 
collector.  He  must  know  the  glittering  phrases  that  are  the 
keys  to  their  hobbies.  The  words  that  bring  a  gleam  to  the 
eye  of  the  Oriental  rug  collector.  The  words  that  fire  the 
china  collector.  The  stamp  collector.  The  period  furniture 
collector.  The  tapestry  enthusiast.  The  first  edition  fan* 
And  so  on. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  desire  your  expert  attention 
for  a  moment.  I  have  here  a  curious  little  thing  of  exquisite 
workmanship  said  to  be  from  the  famous  collection  of  Count 
Valentino  of  Florence.  This  delicately  molded,  beautifully 
painted  candelabra*  has  illuminated  the  feasts  of  the  old  Flor 
entines,  twinkled  amid  the  gay,  courtly  rioting  of  a  time  that 
is  no  more.  Before  the  bidding  for  this  priceless  souvenir  is 
opened  I  desire,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  to  state  briefly " 

Nathan  Ludlow  is  an  auctioneer  who  knows  all  the 
things  an  auctioneer  must  know.  His  eye  is  piercing.  His 
tongue  can  roll  and  rattle  for  twelve  hours  at  a  stretch.  His 
voice  is  the  voice  of  the  tempter,  myriad-toned  and  irresistible. 

It  was  evening.  An  auspicious  evening.  It  was  the 
evening  of  Mr.  Ludlow's  divorce.  And  Mr.  Ludlow  sat  in 
his  room  at  the  Morrison  Hotel,  a  decanter  of  juniper  juice 


at  his  elbow.  And  while  he  sat  he  talked.  The  subjects  va 
ried.  There  were  tales  of  Ming  vases  and  Satsuma  bargains, 
of  porcelains  and  rugs.  And  finally  Mr.  Ludlow  arrived  at 
the  subject  of  audiences.  And  from  this  subject  he  progressed 
with  the  aid  of  the  juniper  juice  to  the  subject  of  wives.  And 
from  the  subject  of  wives  he  stepped  casually  into  the  sad 
story  of  his  life. 

Til  tell  you,"  said  Mr.  Ludlow.  'Tonight  I'm  a  free 
man.  Judge  Pam  gave  me,  or  gave  her,  rather,  the  divorce. 
1  guess  he  did  well.  Maybe  she  was  entitled  to  it.  Desertion 
and  cruelty  were  the  charges.  But  they  don't  mean  anything. 
The  chief  complaint  she  had  against  me  was  that  I  was  an 
auctioneer." 

Mr.  Ludlow  sighed  and  ran  his  long,  artist's  fingers  over 
his  eagle  features  and  brushed  back  a  Byronic  lock  of  hair 
from  his  forehead. 

*'It  was  four  years  ago  we  met,"  he  resumed,  **  in  the 
Wabash  Avenue  place.  I  noticed  her  when  the  bidding  on 
a  rocking  chair  started.  A  pretty  girl.  And  as  is  often  the 
case  among  women  who  attend  auctions — a  bug,  a  fan,  a 
fish.  You  know,  the  kind  that  stiffen  up  when  they  get  excited. 
The  kind  that  hang  on  your  words  and  breathe  hard  while 
you  cut  loose  with  the  patter,  and  lose  their  heads  when  you 
swing  into  the  going-going-gone  finale. 

"Well,  she  didn't  get  the  rocking  chair.  But  she  was 
game  and  came  back  on  a  Chinese  rug.  I  began  to  notice 
her  considerably.  My  words  seemed  to  have  an  unusual  effect 
on  her.  Then  I  could  see  that  she  was  not  only  the  kind  of 
fish  that  lose  their  heads  at  auctions,  but  the  terrible  kind  that 
believe  everything  the  auctioneer  says.  You  know,  they  be 
lieve  that  the  Oriental  rugs  really  came  from  the  harem  of  the 
caliph  and  that  the  antique  bed  really  was  the  one  in  which 
DuBarry  slept  and  that  the  Elizabethan  tablecloth  really  was 
an  Elizabethan  tablecloth.  They  are  kind  of  goofily  romantic 
and  they  fall  hard  for  everything  and  they  spend  their  last 

23 


penny  on  a  lot  of  truck,  you  know.  Not  bad  stuff  and  prob 
ably  a  good  deal  more  useful  and  lasting  than  the  originals 
would  have  been." 

Mr.  Ludlow  smiled  a  bit  apologetically.  "I'm  not  con 
fessing  anything  you  don't  know,  I  hope,"  he  said.  "Well, 
to  go  on  about  the  missus.  I  knew  I  had  her  from  that  first 
day.  I  wasn't  vitally  interested,  but  when  she  returned  six 
days  in  succession  it  got  kind  of  flattering.  And  the  way  she 
looked  at  me  and  listened  to  me  when  I  pulled  my  stuff — say, 
I  could  have  knocked  down  a  bouquet  of  paper  roses  for  the 
original  wreath  worn  by  Venus,  I  felt  so  good.  That's  how 
I  began  to  think  that  she  was  an  inspiration  to  me  and  how  I 
figured  that  if  I  could  have  somebody  like  her  around  I'd  soon 
have  them  all  pocketed  as  auctioneers. 

"I  forget  just  how  it  was  we  met,  but  we  did.  And  I 
swear,  the  way  she  flattered  me  would  have  been  enough  to 
turn  the  head  of  a  guy  ten  times  smarter  than  me  and  forty 
times  as  old.  So  we  got  married.  That's  skipping  a  lot.  But, 
you  know,  what's  it  all  amount  to,  the  courting  and  the  things 
you  say  and  do  before  you  get  married?  So  we  got  married 
and  then  the  fun  started. 

"At  first  I  could  hardly  believe  what  the  drift  of  it  was. 
But  I  hope  to  die  if  she  wasn't  sincere  in  her  ideas  about  me 
as  an  auctioneer.  I  didn't  get  it,  as  I  say,  and  that's  where 
I  made  my  big  mistake.  I  let  her  come  to  the  auctions  and 
told  her  not  to  bid.  But  when  I'd  start  my  patter  on  some 
useless  piece  of  5-  and  10-cent  store  bric-a-brac  and  give 
it  an  identity  and  hint  at  Count  Rudolph's  collection  and  so 
on,  she  was  off  like  a  two-year-old  down  a  morning  track. 

"I  didn't  know  how  to  fix  it  or  how  to  head  her  out  of 
it.  For  a  month  I  didn't  have  the  heart  to  disillusion  her. 
I  let  her  buy.  Damn  it,  I  never  saw  such  an  absolute  boob 
as  she  was.  She'd  pick  out  the  most  worthless  junk  I  was 
knocking  down  and  go  mad  over  it  and  buy  it  with  my  good 
money.  It  got  so  that  I  realized  I  was  slipping.  I'd  get  a 

24 


promise  from  her  that  she  wouldn't  come  into  the  auction, 
but  I  never  could  be  sure.  And  if  I  felt  like  cutting  loose 
on  some  piece  of  junk  and  knocking  it  down  with  a  lot  of 
flourishes  I  knew  sure  as  fate  that  the  missus  would  be  there 
and  that  she  would  be  the  fish  that  caught  fire  first  and  most 
and  that  I'd  be  selling  the  thing  to  myself. 

"Well,  after  the  first  two  months  of  my  married  life  I 
realized  that  I'd  have  to  talk  turkey  to  the  missus.  She  was 
costing  me  my  last  nickel  at  these  auctions  and  the  better  auc 
tioneer  I  was  the  more  money  I  lost,  on  account  of  her  being 
so  susceptible  to  my  line  of  stuff.  It  sounds  funny,  but  it's  a 
fact.  So  I  told  her.  I  made  a  clean  breast.  I  told  her  what 
a  liar  I  was  and  how  all  the  stuff  I  pulled  from  the  auction 
stand  was  the  bunk  and  how  she  was  a  boob  for  falling  for  it. 
And  so  on  and  so  on.  Say,  I  sold  myself  to  her  as  the  world's 
greatest,  all  around,  low  down,  hideous  liar  that  ever  walked 
in  shoe  leather.  And  that's  how  it  started.  This  divorce 
today  is  kind  of  an  anti-climax.  We  ain't  -had  much  to  do 
with  each  other  ever  since  that  confession." 

Mr.  Ludlow  stared  sorrowfully  into  fhe  remains  of  a 
glass  of  juniper  juice. 

"I'll  never  marry  again,"  he  moaned.  "I  ain't  the  kind 
that  makes  a  good  husband.  A  good  husband  is  a  man 
who  is  just  an  ordinary  liar.  And  me?  Well,  I'm  an 
auctioneer." 


Fill 


FOG  PATTERNS 

The  fog  tiptoes  into  the  streets.  It  walks  like  a  great  cat 
through  the  air  and  slowly  devours  the  city. 

The  office  buildings  vanish,  leaving  behind  thin  pencil 
lines  and  smoke  blurs.  The  pavements  become  isolated, 
low-roofed  corridors.  Overhead  the  electric  signs  whisper 
enigmatically  and  the  window  lights  dissolve. 

The  fog  thickens  till  the  city  disappears.  High  up, 
where  the  mists  thin  into  a  dark,  sulphurous  glow,  roof  bub 
bles  float.  The  great  cat's  work  is  done.  It  stands  balancing 
itself  on  the  heads  of  people  and  arches  its  back  against  the 
vanished  buildings. 

I  walk  along  thinking  about  the  way  the  streets  look  and 
arranging  adjectives  in  my  mind.  In  the  heavy  mist  people 
appear  detached.  They  no  longer  seem  to  belong  to  a  pur 
suit  in  common.  Usually  the  busy  part  of  the  city  is  like 
the  exposed  mechanism  of  some  monstrous  clock.  And  peo 
ple  scurry  about  losing  themselves  in  cogs  and  springs  and 
levers. 

But  now  the  monstrous  clock  is  almost  hidden.  The 
stores  and  offices  and  factories  that  form  the  mechanism  of 
this  clock  are  buried  behind  the  fog.  The  cat  has  eaten  them 
up.  Hidden  within  the  mist  the  cogs  still  turn  and  the  springs 
unwind.  But  for  the  moment  they  seem  non-existent.  And 
the  people  drifting  hurriedly  by  in  the  fog  seem  as  if  they 
were  not  going  and  coming  from  stores,  offices  and  factories. 
As  if  they  were  solitaries  hunting  something  in  the  labyrinths 
of  the  fog. 

Yes,  we  are  all  lost  and  wandering  in  the  thick  mists. 
We  have  no  destinations.  The  city  is  without  outlines.  And 
the  drift  of  figures  is  a  meaningless  thing.  Figures  that  are 
going  nowhere  and  coming  from  nowhere.  A  swarm  of 
supernumeraries  who  are  not  in  the  play.  Who  saunter,  dash, 
scurry,  hesitate  in  search  of  a  part  in  the  play. 

27 


DOi 

DD 

DD 

1DD 

ion 


This  is  a  curious  illusion.  I  stop  and  listen  to  music. 
Overhead  a  piano  is  playing  and  a  voice  singing.  A  song- 
boosting  shop  above  Monroe  and  State  streets.  A  ballad 
of  the  cheap  cabarets.  Yet,  because  it  is  music,  it  has  a 
mystery  in  it. 

The  fog  pictures  grow  charming.  There  is  an  idea  in 
them  now.  People  are  detached  little  decorations  etched 
upon  a  mist.  The  cat  has  eaten  up  the  monstrous  clock  and 
people  have  rid  themselves  of  their  routine,  which  was  to 
tumble  and  scurry  among  its  cogs  and  levers.  They  are  done 
with  life,  with  buying  and  selling  and  with  the  perpetual 
errand.  And  they  have  become  a  swarm  of  little  ornaments. 
Men  and  women  denuded  of  the  city.  Their  outlines  posture 
quaintly  in  the  mist.  Their  little  faces  say,  "The  clock  is 
gone.  There  is  nothing  any  more  to  make  us  alive.  So  we 
have  become  our  unconnected  selves/* 

Beside  me  in  the  fog  a  man  stands  next  to  a  tall  paper 
rack.  I  remember  that  this  is  the  rack  where  the  out-of-town 
papers  are  on  sale.  The  papers  are  rolled  up  and  thrust  like 
rows  of  little  white  dolls  in  the  rack.  I  wonder  that  this  should 
be  a  newspaper  stand.  It  looks  like  almost  anything  else  in 
the  fog. 

A  pretty  girl  emerges  from  the  background  of  fog.  She 
talks  to  the  man  next  to  the  rack. 

"Have  you  a  Des  Moines  newspaper?*'  she  asks. 

The  man  is  very  businesslike.  He  fishes  out  a  news 
paper  and  sells  it.  At  the  sight  of  its  headlines  the  girl's 
eyes  light  up.  It  is  as  if  she  had  met  a  very  close  friend.  She 
will  walk  along  feeling  comforted  now.  Chicago  is  a  stranger. 
Its  fog-hidden  buildings  and  streets  are  strangers  and  its 
crowds  criss-crossing  everywhere  are  worse  than  strangers. 
But  now  she  has  Des  Moines  under  her  arm.  Des  Moines  is 
a  companion  that  will  make  the  fog  seem  less  lonely.  Later 
she  will  sit  down  in  a  hotel  room  and  read  of  what  has  hap 
pened  in  Des  Moines  buildings  and  Des  Moines  streets.  These 

28 


will  seem  like  real  happenings,  whereas  the  happenings  that 
the  Chicago  papers  print  seem  like  unrealities. 

This  is  Dearborn  Street  now.  Dark  and  cozy.  People 
are  no  longer  decorations  but  intimate  friends.  When  it  is 
light  and  one  can  see  the  cogs  of  the  monstrous  clock  go  round 
and  the  springs  unwind  one  thinks  of  people  as  a  part  of  this 
mechanism.  And  so  people  grow  vague  in  one's  mind  and 
unhuman  or  only  half-human. 

But  now  that  the  mechanism  is  gone,  people  stand  out 
with  an  insistent  humanness.  People  sitting  on  lunch-counter 
stools,  leaning  over  coffee  cups.  People  standing  behind 
store  counters.  People  buying  cigars  and  people  walking  in 
and  out  of  office  buildings.  They  are  very  friendly.  Their 
tired  faces  smile,  or  at  least  look  somewhat  amused  and  inter 
ested.  They  are  interested  in  the  fog  and  in  the  fact  that 
one  cannot  see  three  feet  ahead.  And  their  faces  say  to  each 
other,  "Here  we  are,  all  alike.  The  city  is  only  a  make- 
believe.  It  can  go  away  but  we  still  remain.  We  are  much 
more  important  than  the  big  buildings." 

I  hear  an  odd  tapping  sound  on  the  pavement.  It  is 
faint  but  growing  nearer.  In  another  moment  a  man  tapping 
on  the  pavement  with  a  cane  passes.  A  blind  man.  And  I 
think  of  a  plot  for  a  fiction  story.  If  a  terrible  murder  were 
committed  in  a  marvelous  fog  that  hid  everything  the  chief  of 
police  would  summon  a  blind  man.  And  the  blind  man  could 
track  the  murderer  down  in  the  fog  because  he  alone  would 
be  able  to  move  in  the  thick,  obliterating  mists.  And  so  the 
blind  man,  with  his  cane  tapping,  tapping  over  the  pavements 
and  able  by  long  practice  to  move  without  sight,  would  slowly 
close  in  on  the  murderer  hemmed  in  by  darkness. 

A  newsboy  cries  from  the  depth  of  nowhere:  "Paper 
here.  Trains  crash  in  fog.  Paper/* 

A  friend  and  I  sat  in  an  office.  He  has  been  dictating 
letters,  but  he  stops  and  stares  out  of  the  window.  His  eyes 
grow  speculative.  He  says: 

29 


"Wouldn't  it  be  odd  if  it  were  always  like  this?  I  think 
I'd  like  it  better,  wouldn't  you?  But  I  suppose  they'd  invent 
lights  able  to  penetrate  mist  and  the  town  would  be  as  garish 
as  ever  in  a  few  years.  But  I  like  the  fog  because  it  slows 
things  up.  Things  are  too  damn  fast  to  suit  me.  I  like  'em 
slow.  Like  they  used  to  be  a  century  ago." 

We  talk  and  my  friend  becomes  reminiscent  on  the  sub 
ject  of  stage  coaches  and  prairie  schooners  and  the  days 
before  there  were  railroads,  telephones,  electricity  and  crowds. 
He  has  never  known  such  a  time,  but  from  what  he  has  read 
and  imagined  about  it — yes,  it  would  be  better. 

When  I  come  out  it  is  mid-afternoon.  The  fog  has  gone. 
The  city  has  popped  back  and  sprawls  triumphantly  into  space. 
For  a  moment  it  seems  as  if  the  city  had  sprung  up  in  an 
hour.  Then  its  sturdy  walls  and  business  windows  begin  to 
mock  at  the  memory  of  the  fog  in  my  mind.  "Fogs  do  not 
devour  us,"  they  say.  "We  are  the  ones  who  do  the  devour 
ing.  We  devour  fogs  and  people  and  days."  Marvelous 
buildings. 

Overhead  the  sky  floats  like  a  gray  and  white  balloon. 
as  if  it  were  a  toy  belonging  to  the  city. 


DON  QUIXOTE  AND  HIS  LAST  WINDMILL 

Sherwood  Anderson,  the  writer,  and  I  were  eating  lunch 
in  the  back  room  of  a  saloon.  Against  the  opposite  wall  sat  a 
red-faced  little  man  with  an  elaborate  mustache  and  a  bald 
head  and  a  happy  grin.  He  sat  alone  at  a  tilted  round  table 
and  played  with  a  plate  of  soup. 

"Say,  that  old  boy  over  there  is  trying  to  wigwag  me/' 
said  Anderson.  "He  keeps  winking  and  making  signs.  Do 
you  know  him?" 

I  looked  and  said  no.  The  waiter  appeared  with  a  box 
of  cigars. 

"Mr.  Sklarz  presents  his  compliments,"  said  the  waiter, 
smiling. 

"Who's  Sklarz?"  Anderson  asked,  helping  himself  to 
a  cigar.  The  waiter  indicated  the  red-faced  little  man. 
"Him,"  he  whispered. 

We  continued  our  meal.  Both  of  us  watched  Mr.  Sklarz 
casually.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  interest  in  his  soup.  He 
sat  beaming  happily  at  the  walls,  a  contagious  elation  about 
him.  We  smiled  and  nodded  our  thanks  for  the  cigars. 
Whereupon  after  a  short  lapse,  the  waiter  appeared  again. 

"What*  11  you  have  to  drink,  gentlemen?"  the  waiter 
inquired. 

"Nothing,"  said  Anderson,  knowing  I  was  broke.  The 
waiter  raised  his  continental  eyebrows  understandingly. 

"Mr.  Sklarz  invites  you,  gentlemen,  to  drink  his  health — 
at  his  expense." 

"Two  glasses,"  Anderson  ordered.  They  were  brought. 
We  raised  them  in  silent  toast  to  the  little  red-faced  man.  He 
arose  and  bowed  as  we  drank. 

"We'll  probably  have  him  on  our  hands  now  for  an 
hour,"  Anderson  frowned.  I  feared  the  same.  But  Mr. 
Sklarz  reseated  himself  and,  with  many  head  bowings  in  our 
direction,  returned  to  his  soup. 

31 


"What  do  you  make  of  our  magnanimous  friend?"  I 
asked.  Anderson  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"He's  probably  celebrating  something,"  he  said.  "A 
queer  oldl  boy,  isn't  he?" 

The  waiter  appeared  a  third  time. 

"What'll  it  be,  gentlemen?"  he  inquired,  smiling.  "Mr. 
Sklarz  is  buying  for  the  house." 

For  the  house.  There  were  some  fifteen  men  eating  in 
the  place.  Then  our  friend,  despite  his  unassuming  appear 
ance,  was  evidently  a  creature  of  wealth!  Well,  this  was 
growing  interesting.  We  ordered  wine  again. 

"Ask  Mr.  Sklarz  if  he  will  favor  us  by  joining  us  at  our 
table  for  this  drink,"  I  told  the  waiter.  The  message  was 
delivered.  Mr.  Sklarz  arose  and  bowed,  but  sat  down  again. 
Anderson  and  I  beckoned  in  pantomime.  Mr.  Sklarz  arose 
once  more,  bowed  and  hesitated.  Then  he  came  over. 

As  he  approached  a  veritable  carnival  spirit  seemed  to 
deepen  around  us.  The  face  of  this  little  man  with  the 
elaborate  black  mustache  was  violent  with  suppressed  good 
will  and  mirth.  He  beamed,  bowed,  shook  hands  and  sat 
down.  We  drank  one  another's  health  and,  as  politely  as  we 
could,  pressed  him  to  tell  us  the  cause  for  his  celebration  and 
good  spirits.  He  began  to  talk. 

He  was  a  Russian  Jew.  His  name  was  Sklarz.  He  had 
been  in  the  Russian  army  years  ago.  In  Persia.  From  a 
mountain  in  Persia  you  could  see  three  great  countries.  In 
Turkey  he  had  fought  with  baggy-trousered  soldiers  and  at 
night  joined  them  when  they  played  their  flutes  outside  the 
coffee-houses  and  sang  songs  about  women  and  war.  Then 
he  had  come  to  America  and  opened  a  box  factory.  He  was 
very  prosperous  and  the  factory  in  which  he  made  boxes  grew 
too  small. 

So  what  did  he  do  but  take  a  walk  one  day  to  look  for 
a  larger  factory.  And  he  found  a  beautiful  building  just  as 
he  wanted.  But  the  building  was  too  beautiful  to  use  for  a 

32 


factory.  It  should  be  used  for  something  much  nicer.  So 
what  did  he  do  then  but  decide  to  open  a  dance-hall,  a  mag 
nificent  dance-hall,  where  young  men  and  women  of  refined, 
fun-loving  temperaments  could  come  to  dance  and  have  fun. 

"When  does  this  dance-hall  open?'*  Anderson  asked. 
Ah,  in  a  little  while.  There  were  fittings  to  buy  and  put  up 
first.  But  he  would  send  us  special  invitations  to  the  opening. 
In  the  meantime  would  we  drink  his  health  again?  Mr.  Sklarz 
chuckled.  The  amazing  thing  was  that  he  wasn't  drunk.  He 
was  sober. 

"So  you're  celebrating,"  I  said.  Yes,  he  was  celebrating. 
He  laughed  and  leaned  over  the  table  toward  us.  His  eyes 
danced  and  his  elaborate  mustache  made  a  grotesque  halo 
for  his  smile.  He  didn't  want  to  intrude  on  us  with  his  story, 
but  in  Persia  and  Turkey  and  the  Urals  he  had  found  life 
very  nice.  And  here  in  Chicago  he  had  found  life  also  very 
nice.  Life  was  very  nice  wherever  you  went.  And  Anderson 
quoted,  rather  imperfectly,  I  thought: 

Oh,   but   life  went   gayly,    gayly 

In  the  house  of  Idah  Dally; 
There  were  always  throats  to  sing 

Down  the  river  bank  with  spring. 

Mr.  Sklarz  beamed. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  "down  the  river  benk  mit  spring." 
And  he  stood  up  and  bowed  and  summoned  the  waiter.  "See 
vat  all  the  gentlemen  vant,"  he  ordered,  "and  give  them  vat 
they  vant  mit  my  compliments."  He  laughed,  or,  rather, 
chuckled.  "I  must  be  going.  Excuse  me,"  he  exclaimed  with 
a  quick  little  bow.  "I  have  other  places  to  call  on.  Good-by. 
Remember  me — Sam  Sklarz.  Be  good — and  don't  forget 
Sam  Sklarz  when  there  are  throats  to  zing  down  the  river 
benk  mit  spring." 

We  watched  him  walk  out.  His  shoulders  seemed  to 
dance,  his  short  legs  moved  with  a  sprightly  lift. 

33 


"A  queer  old  boy,"  said  Anderson.  We  talked  about 
him  for  a  half  hour  and  then  left  the  place. 

Anderson  called  me  up  the  next  morning  to  ask  if  I 
had  read  about  it  in  the  paper.  I  told  him  I  had.  A  clipping 
on  the  desk  in  front  of  me  ran: 

"Sam  Sklarz,  46  years  old  and  owner  of  a  box  factory 
on  the  West  Side,  committed  suicide  early  this  morning  by 
jumping  into  the  drainage  canal.  Financial  reverses  are 
believed  to  have  caused  him  to  end  his  life.  According  to 
friends  he  was  on  the  verge  of  bankruptcy.  His  liabilities 
were  $8,000.  Yesterday  morning  Sklarz  cashed  a  check  for 
$700,  which  represented  the  remains  of  his  bank  account,  and 
disappeared.  It  is  believed  that  he  used  the  money  to  pay 
a  few  personal  debts  and  then  wandered  around  in  a  daze 
until  the  end.  He  left  no  word  of  explanation  behind.** 


THE  MAN  HUNT 

They  were  hunting  him.  Squads  of  coppers  with  rifles, 
detectives,  stool  pigeons  were  hunting  him.  And  the  people 
who  had  read  the  story  in  the  newspapers  and  looked  at  his 
picture,  they  too,  were  hunting  him. 

Tommy  O'Connor  looked  out  of  the  smeared  window 
of  the  room  in  which  he  sat  and  stared  at  the  snow.  A  drift 
of  snow  across  the  roofs.  A  scribble  of  snow  over  the  pave 
ment. 

There  were  automobiles  racing  through  the  streets  loaded 
with  armed  men.  There  were  crowds  looking  for  a  telltale 
face  in  their  own  midst.  Guards,  deputies,  coppers  were 
surrounding  houses  and  peering  into  alleys,  raiding  saloons, 
ringing  doorbells.  The  whole  city  was  on  his  heels.  The 
city  was  like  a  pack  of  dogs  sniffing  wildly  for  his  trail.  And 
when  they  found  it  they  would  come  whooping  toward  him 
for  a  leap  at  his  throat. 

Well,  here  he  was — -waiting.  It  was  snowing  outside. 
There  was  no  noise  in  the  street.  A  man  was  passing.  One 
of  the  pack?  No.  Just  a  man.  The  man  looked  up.  Tommy 
O'Connor  took  his  face  slowly  away  from  the  window.  He 
had  a  gun  in  his  pocket  and  his  hand  was  holding  it.  But 
the  man  was  walking  away.  Huh!  If  the  guy  knew  that 
Lucky  Tommy  O'Connor  was  watching  him  from  a  window 
he'd  walk  a  little  faster.  If  the  guy  knew  that  Lucky  O'Con 
nor,  who  had  busted  his  way  out  of  jail  and  was  being  hunted 
by  a  million  people  with  guns,  was  sitting  up  here  behind  the 
window,  he'd  throw  a  fit.  But  he  didn't  know.  He  was 
like  the  walls  and  the  windows  and  the  snow  outside— -quiet 
and  peaceful. 

"Nice  boy,"  grinned  Tommy  O'Connor.  Then  he  began 
to  fidget.  He  ought  to  go  out  and  buy  a  paper.  See  what 
was  doing.  See  what  became  of  Mac  and  the  rest  of  the 
boys.  Maybe  they'd  all  been  nabbed.  But  they  couldn't 

35 


(DA 

•   if  ir 


do  him  harm.  On  account  nobody  knew  where  he  was.  No 
pal.  No  dame.  Nobody  knew  he  was  sitting  here  in  the 
room  looking  at  the  snow  and  just  thinking.  The  papers  were 
probably  full  of  cock-and-bull  stories  about  his  racing  across 
the  country  and  hiding  in  haystacks  and  behind  barns.  Kid 
stuff.  Maybe  he  should  ought  to  of  left  town.  But  it  felt 
better  in  town.  Some  rube  was  always  sure  to  pick  out  a 
stranger  beating  it  down  a  empty  road.  And  there  was  no 
place  to  hide.  Long,  empty  stretches,  where  anybody  could 
see  you  for  a  mile. 

Better  in  town.  Lots  of  walls,  alleys,  roofs.  Lots  of 
things  like  that.  No  hare-and-hounds  effect  like  in  the  coun 
try.  But  the  papers  were  probably  full  of  a  lot  of  bunk. 
He'd  take  a  walk  later  and  buy  a  few.  Better  sit  still  now. 
There  was  nothing  harder  to  find  than  a  man  sitting  still. 

Tommy  O'Connor  yawned.  Not  much  sleep  the  night 
before.  Well,  he'd  sleep  tonight.  Worrying  wasn't  going 
to  help  matters.  What  if  they  did  come?  Let  them  come. 
Fill  up  the  street  and  begin  their  damn  shooting.  They 
didn't  think  Lucky  Tommy  was  sucker  enough  to  let  them 
march  him  up  on  a  scaffold  and  break  his  neck  on  the  end 
of  a  rope.  Fat  chance.  Not  him.  That  sort  of  stuff  hap 
pened  to  other  guys,  not  to  Lucky  Tomiriy. 

Snowing  outside.  And  quiet.  Everybody  at  work. 
Funny  about  that.  Tommy  O'Connor  was  the  only  free  man 
in  the  city.  There  was  nobody  felt  like  him  right  now — 
nobody.  Where  would  he  be  exactly  this  time  a  week  from 
now?  If  he  could  only  look  ahead  and  see  himself  at  four 
o'clock  next  Monday  afternoon.  But  he  was  free  now.  No 
breaking  his  neck  on  the  end  of  a  rope.  If  worst  came  to 
worst — if  worst  came  to  worst — O'Connor's  fingers  took  a 
grip  on  the  gun  in  his  pocket.  They  were  hunting  him.  Up 
and  down  the  streets  everywhere.  Racing  around  in  taxis, 
with  rifles  sticking  out  of  the  windows.  Well,  why  didn't 
they  come  into  this  street?  All  they  had  to  do  was  figure 

36 

I 


out:  Here's  the  street  Tommy  O'Connor  is  hiding  in.  And 
that  looks  like  the  house.  And  then  somebody  would  yell 
out:  "There  he  is!  Behind  that  window!  That's  him!" 
Why  didn't  this  happen? 

Christmas,  maybe,  he'd  call  on  the  folks.  No.  Rube 
stuff.  A  million  coppers  would  be  watching  the  house.  But 
he  might  drop  them  a  letter.  Too  bad  he  didn't  have  any 
paper,  or  he  might  write  a  lot  of  letters.  To  the  chief  of 
police  and  all  the  head  hunters.  Some  more  rube  stuff,  that. 
They  could  tell  by  the  postmark  what  part  of  the  city  he 
was  hiding  in  and  they'd  be  on  him  with  a  whoop. 

Funny  how  he  had  landed  in  this  room.  No  plans,  no 
place  in  particular  to  head  for.  That  was  the  best  way.  Like 
he'd  figured  it  out  and  it  turned  out  perfect.  Grab  the  first 
auto  and  ride  like  hell  and  keep  on  changing  autos  and  riding 
around  and  around  in  the  streets  and  crawling  deeper  into 
the  city  until  the  trail  was  all  twisted  and  he  was  buried.  But 
he  ought  to  shave  his  mustache  off.  Hell.  What  for?  If 
they  came  whooping  into  the  street  they'd  find  him,  mustache 
or  no  mustache.  But  what  if  he  wanted  to  buy  some  papers? 

It  was  getting  darker  now.  The  snow  was  letting  up. 
Just  dribbling.  Better  if  it  would  snow  a  lot.  Then  he  could 
sit  and  have  something  to  watch — snow  falling  on  the  street 
and  turning  things  white.  That  was  on  account  of  his  head 
ache  he  was  thinking  that  way.  Eats  might  help,  but  he  wasn't 
hungry.  Scared?  No.  Just  waiting.  Hunters  winding  in 
and  out  like  the  snow  that  was  falling.  People  were  funny. 
They  got  a  big  thrill  out  of  hunting  a  live  man  who  was  free 
in  the  streets. 

He'd  be  walking  some  day.  Strolling  around  the  streets 
free  as  any  of  them.  Maybe  not  in  town.  Some  other  town. 
Take  a  walk  down  State  Street.  Drop  in  at  a  movie.  Kid 
stuff.  Walk  over  to  Mac's  saloon  and  kind  of  casually  say 
"Hello,  fellows."  And  walk  out  again.  God,  they'd  never 

37 


hang  him.     If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst — if  the  worst  came 
to  the  worst — but  they'd  never  hang  him. 

Dark  now.  But  the  guys  hunting  him  weren't  going  to 
sleep.  Lights  were  going  on  in  the  windows.  Better  light  up 
the  room.  People  might  notice  a  dark  window.  But  a  lighted 
one  would  look  all  right.  It  was  not  snowing  any  more.  Just 
cold. 

Well,  he'd  go  out  in  a  while.  Stretch  his  legs  and  buy  the 
papers  and  give  them  a  reading.  And  then  take  a  walk.  Just 
walk  around  and  take  in  the  streets  and  see  if  there  was  any 
body  he  knew.  No.  Rube  stuff,  that.  Better  stick  where 
he  was. 

Lucky  Tommy  walked  around  in  the  room.  The  drawn 
window  blind  held  his  eye.  Wagons  were  passing.  What 
for?  Yes,  and  there  was  a  noise.  Like  people  coming.  Turn 
out  the  light,  then.  He'd  take  a  look. 

Tommy  O'Connor  peeled  back  the  blind  carefully.  Dark. 
Lights  in  windows.  Some  guys  on  the  corner.  Hunting  him? 
Sure.  And  they  were  coming  his  way.  Straight  down  the 
street.  They  were  looking  up.  What  for?  A  gun  crept  out 
of  Tommy  O'Connor's  pocket.  He  pressed  himself  carefully 
against  the  wall.  He  waited.  The  minutes  grew  long.  But 
this  was  the  hunt  closing  in.  They  were  coming.  Black  figures 
of  men  floating  casually  down  the  street  All  right — let  them 
come. 

Lucky  Tommy  O'Connor's  eyes  stared  rigidly  out  of  the 
smeared  window  at  a  vague  flurry  of  figures  that  seemed  to 
be  coming,  coming  his  way. 


MR.  WINKELBERG 

There  was  never  a  man  as  irritating  as  Winkelberg.  He 
was  an  encyclopedia  of  misfortune.  Everything  which  can 
happen  to  a  man  had  happened  to  him.  He  had  lost  his 
family,  his  money  and  his  health.  He  was,  in  short,  a  man 
completely  broken — tall,  thin,  with  a  cadaverous  face,  out 
of  which  shone  two  huge,  lusterless  eyes.  He  walked  with 
an  angular  crawl  that  reminded  one  of  the  emaciated  flies 
one  sees  at  the  beginning  of  winter  dragging  themselves  per 
versely  along  as  if  struggling  across  an  illimitable  expanse  of 
flypaper. 

It  was  one  of  Winkelberg's  worst  habits  to  appear  at 
unexpected  moments.  But  perhaps  any  appearances  poor 
Winkelberg  might  have  made  would  have  had  this  irritating 
quality  of  unexpectedness.  One  was  never  looking  forward 
to  Winkelberg,  and  thus  the  sight  of  his  wan,  determined  smile, 
his  lusterless  eyes  and  his  tenacious  crawl  was  invariably  an 
uncomfortable  surprise. 

I  will  be  frank.  It  was  Winkelberg's  misfortune  which 
first  attracted  me.  I  listened  to  his  story  avidly.  He  talked 
in  slow  words  and  there  was  intelligence  in  the  man.  He  was 
able  to  perceive  himself  not  only  as  a  pain-racked,  starving 
human,  but  he  glimpsed  with  his  large,  tired  eyes  his  relation 
to  things  outside  himself.  I  remember  he  said,  and  without 
emotion:  "There  is  nobody  to  blame.  Not  even  myself. 
And  if  I  cannot  blame  myself  how  can  I  blame  the  world? 
The  city  is  like  that.  I  am  no  good.  I  am  done.  Something 
worn  out  and  useless.  People  try  to  take  care  of  the  useless 
ones  and  they  would  like  to.  There  are  institutions.  I  was 
kicked  out  of  two  of  them.  They  said  I  was  a  faker.  Some 
how  I  don't  appeal  to  charitably  inclined  people." 

Later  I  understood  why.  It  was  because  of  the  man's 
smile — a  feeble,  tenacious  grimace  that  seemed  to  be  offering 
a  sardonic  reproof.  It  could  never  have  been  mistaken  for  a 


39 


courageous  smile.  The  secret  of  its  aggravating  quality  was 
this:  In  it  Winkelberg  accused  himself  of  his  uselessness,  his 
feebleness,  his  poverty.  It  was  as  if  he  were  regarding  himself 
continually  through  the  annoyed  eyes  of  others  and  addressing 
himself  with  the  words  of  others:  "You,  Winkelberg,  get 
out  of  here.  You're  a  nuisance.  You  make  me  uncomfortable 
because  you're  poor  and  diseased  and  full  of  gloom.  Get 
out.  I  don't  want  you  around.  Why  the  devil  don't  you 
die?" 

And  the  aggravating  thing  was  that  people  looked  at 
Winkelberg's  smile  as  into  a  mirror.  They  saw  in  it  a  reflec 
tion  of  their  own  attitude  toward  the  man.  They  felt  that 
Winkelberg  understood  what  they  thought  of  him.  And 
they  didn't  like  that.  They  didn't  like  to  feel  that  Winkel 
berg  was  aware  that  deep  inside  their  minds  they  were  always 
asking:  "Why  doesn't  this  Winkelberg  die  and  have  it  over 
with?"  Because  that  made  them  out  as  cruel,  heartless  people, 
not  much  different  in  their  attitude  toward  their  fellow  men 
from  predatory  animals  in  their  attitude  toward  fellow  pre 
datory  animals.  And  somehow,  although  they  really  felt 
that  way  toward  Winkelberg,  they  preferred  not  to  believe  it. 
But  Winkelberg's  smile  was  a  mirror  which  would  not  let 
them  escape  this  truth.  And  eventually  Winkelberg's  smile 
became  for  them  one  of  those  curious  mirrors  which  exaggerate 
images  grotesquely.  Charitably  inclined  people,  as  well  as 
all  other  kinds  of  inclined  people,  prefer  their  Winkelbergs 
more  egoistic.  They  prefer  that  unfortunate  ones  be  engrossed 
in  their  misfortunes  and  not  go  around  wearing  sardonic, 
philosophical  smiles. 

Winkelberg  dragged  along  for  a  year.  He  was  past 
fifty.  Each  time  I  saw  him  I  was  certain  I  would  never  see 
him  again.  I  was  certain  he  would  die — drop  dead  while 
crawling  across  his  flypaper.  But  he  would  appear.  I  would 
pretend  to  be  vastly  busy.  He  would  sit  and  wait.  He  never 
asked  alms.  I  would  have  been  relieved  if  he  had.  Instead 

40 


he  sat  and  smiled,  and  his  smile  said:  "You  are  afraid  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  for  money.  Don't  worry.  I  won't  ask  you 
for  money.  I  won't  bother  you  at  all.  Yes,  I  agree  with  you, 
I  ought  to  be  dead.  It  would  be  better  for  everybody.** 

We  would  talk  little.  He  would  throw  out  a  hint  now 
and  then  that  perhaps  I  could  use  some  of  his  misfortunes 
for  material.  For  instance,  the  time  his  two  children  had 
been  burned  to  death.  Or  the  time  he  had  fallen  off  the 
street  car  while  in  a  sick  daze  and  injured  his  spine  for  life, 
and  how  he  had  settled  with  the  street  car  company  for  $500 
and  how  he  had  been  robbed  on  the  way  to  the  bank  with 
the  money  two  weeks  later. 

I  refused  consistently  this  offer  of  ''material.**  This 
offended  Winkelberg.  He  would  shake  his  head  and  then  he 
would  nod  his  head  understandingly  and  his  smile  would  say: 

"Yes,  yes.  I  understand.  You  don't  want  to  get  involved 
with  me.  Because  you  don't  want  me  to  have  any  more 
claims  on  your  sympathy  than  I've  got.  I'm  sorry.** 

Toward  the  end  Winkelb erg's  visits  grew  more  frequent. 
And  he  became  suddenly  garrulous.  He  wished  to  discuss 
things.  The  city.  The  various  institutions.  Politics.  Art. 
This  phase  of  Winkelberg  was  the  most  unbearable.  He  was 
willing  to  admit  himself  a  social  outcast.  He  was  reconciled 
to  the  fact  that  he  would  starve  to  death  and  that  everybody 
who  had  ever  seen  him  would  feel  it  had  been  a  good  thing 
that  he  had  finally  died.  But  this  final  plea  came  from  him. 
He  wanted  nothing  except  to  talk  and  hear  words  in  order 
to  relieve  the  loneliness  of  his  days.  He  would  like  abstract 
discussions  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  Winkelberg  and  the 
Winkelberg  misfortunes.  His  smile  now  said:  "I  am  useless, 
worn  out  and  better  off  dead.  But  never  mind  me.  My  mind 
is  still  alive.  It  still  thinks.  I  wish  it  didn't.  I  wish  it  crawled 
around  like  my  body.  But  seeing  that  it  does,  talk  to  me 
as  if  it  were  a  mind  belonging  to  somebody  else  and  not  to 
the  insufferable  Winkelberg." 


I  grew  suspicious  finally.  I  began  to  think  there  was 
something  vitally  spurious  about  this  whole  Winkelberg  busi 
ness.  And  I  said  to  myself:  "The  man's  a  downright  fake. 
If  anybody  were  as  pathetic  and  impossible  and  useless  as 
this  Winkelberg  is  he  would  shoot  himself.  Winkelberg 
doesn't  shoot  himself.  So  he  becomes  illogical.  Unreal." 

A  woman  I  know  belongs  to  the  type  that  becomes  char 
itable  around  Christmas  time.  She  makes  a  glowing  pretense 
of  aiding  the  poor.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  really  does  aid 
them,  although  she  regards  the  poor  as  a  sort  of  social  and 
spiritual  asset.  They  afford  her  the  double  opportunity  of 
appearing  in  the  eyes  of  her  neighbors  as  a  magnanimous 
soul  and  of  doing  something  which  reflects  great  credit  upon 
her  character.  But,  anyway,  she  "does  good,"  and  we'll 
let  it  go  at  that. 

I  told  this  woman  about  Winkelberg.  I  became  poignant 
and  moving  on  the  subject  of  Winkelberg' s  misfortunes,  his 
trials,  sufferings  and,  above  all,  his  Spartan  stoicism.  It 
pleased  me  to  do  this.  I  felt  that  I  was  making  some  amends 
and  that  the  thing  reflected  credit  upon  my  character. 

So  she  went  to  the  room  on  the  South  Side  where  Wink 
elberg  sleeps.  And  they  told  her  there  that  Winkelberg  was 
dead.  He  had  died  last  week.  She  was  upset  when  she  told 
me  about  it.  She  had  come  too  late.  She  might  have  saved 
him. 

It  was  a  curious  thing — but  when  she  told  me  that 
Winkelberg  was  dead  I  felt  combatively  that  it  was  untrue. 
And  now  since  I  know  certainly  that  Winkelberg  is  dead 
and  buried  I  have  developed  a  curious  state  of  mind.  I  look 
up  from  my  desk  every  once  in  a  while  expecting  to  see  him. 
In  the  streets  I  sometimes  find  myself  actually  thinking:  *T11 
bump  into  him  when  I  turn  the  corner." 

I  have  managed  to  discover  the  secret  of  this  feeling. 
It  is  Winkelberg' s  smile.  Winkelberg' s  smile  was  the  inter- 

42 


/ 


pretation  of  the  world's  attitude  toward  him,  including  my 
own.  And  thus  whenever  his  name  conies  to  mind  his  smile 
appears  as  if  it  were  the  thought  in  my  head.  And  in  Wink- 
elberg's  smile  I  hear  myself  saying:  "He  is  better  off  dead." 


A  SELF-MADE  MAN 

"Over  there,"  said  Judge  Sabath,  "is  a  man  who  has  been 
a  juror  in  criminal  cases  at  least  a  dozen  times.** 

His  honor  pointed  to  a  short,  thin  man  with  a  derby  on 
the  back  of  his  head  and  a  startling  mustache,  concealing 
almost  half  of  his  wizened  face.  The  man  was  sitting  a  bit 
childishly  on  a  window  ledge  in  the  hall  of  the  Criminal  Court 
building  swinging  his  legs  and  chewing  rhythmically  on  a  plug 
of  tobacco. 

"They  let  him  go  this  morning  while  picking  a  jury  for 
a  robbery  case  before  me/*  said  the  judge.  "He  tried  to 
stay  on,  but  neither  side  wanted  him.  You  might  get  a  story 
out  of  him.  I  think  he's  broken-hearted." 

The  short,  thin  man  with  the  derby,  swinging  his  legs 
from  the  window  ledge  said  his  name  was  Martin. 

"That's  true,"  he  said,  "what  the  judge  said.  I  been  a 
juror  fourteen  times.  I  was  on  five  murders  and  four  big 
robberies  and  then  I  was  on  five  different  assorted  kinds  of 
crimes.'* 

"How  do  you  like  being  a  juror,  Mr.  Martin?" 

"Well,  sir,  I  like  it  a  lot.  I  can  say  that  out  of  the  four 
teen  times  I  been  a  juror  I  never  lost  a  case." 

Mr.  Martin  aimed  at  the  new  cuspidor — and  missed. 

"There's  some  jurors  as  loses  nearly  every  case  they're 
on.  They  give  in  first  crack.  But  take  the  Whitely  murder 
trial  I  was  on.  That  was  as  near  as  I  ever  come  to  losing  a 
case.  But  I  managed  to  hang  the  jury  and  the  verdict  was  one 
of  disagreement.  Whitely  was  innocent.  Anybody  could 
have  told  that  with  half  an  eye." 

"How  long  have  you  been  serving  on  juries,  Mr.  Mar 
tin?" 

"Going  nigh  on  twenty- three  years.  I  had  my  first  case 
when  I  was  a  young  man.  It  was  a  minor  case — a  robbery. 
I  won  that  despite  my  youth  and  inexperience.  In  those  days 

44 


the  cases  were  much  harder  than  now  on  account  of  the 
lawyers.  The  old-fashioned  lawyer  was  the  talkingest  kind 
of  a  nuisance  I  ever  had  to  deal  with.  He  always  reminded  me 
of  somebody  talking  at  a  mark  for  two  dollars  a  week. 

"I  don't  refer  to  the  orators.  I  mean  the  ones  who  talk 
during  the  case  itself  and  who  slow  things  up  generally  by 
bothering  the  witnesses  to  death  with  a  lot  of  unnecessary 
questions.  Although  the  orators  are  pretty  bad,  too.  There's 
many  a  lawyer  who  has  lost  out  with  me  on  account  of  the 
way  he  made  faces  in  the  windup.  One  of  my  rules  as  a  juror, 
a  successful  one,  I  might  say,  is,  'Always  mistrust  a  lawyer 
who  talks  too  fancy.'  ' 

"Judge  Sabath  just  said  that  they  let  you  go  in  his 
court  this  morning." 

"H'm,"  snorted  Mr.  Martin.  "That  was  the  lawyer. 
He's  mad  at  me  because  he  lost  a  case  two  years  ago  that  I 
was  on.  I  won  it  and  he  holds  a  grudge.  That's  like  some 
lawyers.  They  don't  like  the  man  who  licks  them. 

"But  you  were  asking  about  the  qualifications  of  an  all- 
around  juryman.  I'll  give  'em  to  you.  First  and  foremost 
you  want  a  man  of  wide  experience  in  human  nature.  I  spend 
most  of  my  time  in  the  courts  when  I  ain't  serving  as  juror 
studyin'  human  nature.  You  might  say  that  all  human  nature 
is  the  same.  But  it's  my  experience  that  some  is  more  so  than 
others. 

"Well,  when  you  know  human  nature  the  next  step  is 
to  figure  out  about  lawyers.  Lawyers  as  a  whole  is  the  hard 
est  nut  the  juror  has  to  crack.  To  begin  with,  they're  deceivin', 
and  if  you  let  them  they'll  take  advantage  of  your  credulity. 
There's  Mr.  Erbstein,  for  instance,  the  criminal  lawyer.  He's 
a  pretty  smart  one,  but  I  won  a  case  from  him  only  four  years 
ago  and  he's  never  forgiven  me.  I  was  juror  in  a  manslaughter 
trial  he  was  trying  to  run.  He  thought  himself  pretty  foxy, 
but  when  it  came  to  a  showdown  I  put  it  all  over  him.  There 

45 


was  a  guy  who  was  foreman  of  the  jury  that  time  who  said  I 
had  it  all  over  Mr.  Erbstein  as  an  argufier  and  that  my  argu 
ments  made  his  look  like  ten  cents.  I  won  easily  on  five  ballots 
and  Mr.  Erbstein  has  never  forgave  me. 

"But  I'll  go  on  about  the  qualifications.  First  of  all,  I  never 
read  newspapers.  Never.  No  juror  should  ought  to  know 
anything  about  anything  that's  going  on.  I  found  that  out  in 
my  youth  when  I  first  started  in.  The  first  question  they  ask 
you  is,  'What  have  you  heard  about  this  case  and  what  have 
you  read  or  said  about  it?'  That's  the  first  one.  Well,  the 
right  answer  is  'nothing.' 

"If  you  can  say  nothing  and  prove  you're  right  they'll 
gobble  you  up  as  a  juror.  For  that  reason  I  avoid  all  news 
papers,  and  right  now  I  don't  know  what  big  crimes  or  cases 
have  been  committed  at  all.  I  have  a  clean,  unprejudiced 
mind  and  I  keep  it  that  way. 

"Nextly,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  trying  a  new  sight  on  the 
cuspidor,  "I  don't  belong  to  any  lodges  whatsoever.  They're 
a  handicap.  Because  if  the  defendant  is  a  Mason  and  you 
are  a  Elk  he  would  rather  have  a  brother  Mason  be  juror  than 
a  strange  Elk.  So  I  don't  belong  to  any  of  them  and  I  don't 
go  to  church.  I  also  have  no  convictions  whatsoever  about 
politics  and  have  no  favorites  of  any  kind  in  the  matter  of 
authors  or  statesmen  or  anything.  What  I  try  to  do  is  to  keep 
my  mind  clean  and  unprejudiced  on  all  subjects." 

"Why  do  you  like  serving  as  a  juror?" 

Mr.  Martin  stared. 

"Why?"  he  repeated.  "Because  it's  every  man's  duty, 
naturally.  And  besides,"  he  went  on,  narrowing  his  eyes  into 
shrewd  slits,  "I've  just  been  luckier  than  most  people.  Most 
people  only  get  called  a  few  times  during  their  life.  But  I 
get  called  regularly  every  year  and  sometimes  twice  a  year 
and  sometimes  four  and  five  times  a  year  for  service.  Of 
course,  I  ain't  boasting,  but  the  city  has  recognized  my  merits, 

46 


.no  doubt,  as  a  juror,  knowing  all  the  cases  I've  won,  and  it 
perhaps  shows  a  little  partiality  to  me  for  that  reason.  But 
I  feel  that  I  have  earned  it  and  I  would  like  nothing  said  about 
it  or  any  scandal  started." 

*'What  do  you  think  of  this  Taylor  death  mystery  in  Los 
Angeles,  Mr.  Martin?" 

"Ha,  ha,"  said  Mr.  Martin,  "there  you're  tryin*  to  catch 
me.  You  thought  you  could  put  that  over  on  me  without  my 
seein'  through  it,  didn't  you?  That's  just  the  way  the  lawyers 
try  to  trap  me  when  I'm  sittin*  on  one  of  my  cases.  I  ain't 
ever  heard  of  this  Taylor  death  mystery,  not  reading  the 
papers,  you  see." 

"That's  too  bad,  Mr.  Martin.  It's  quite  a  story."  Mr. 
Martin  sighed  and  slipped  from  the  window  ledge,  shaking 
down  his  wrinkled,  high-water  pants. 

"Yes,"  he  sighed,  a  sudden  wistfulness  coming  into  his 
rheumy  eyes.  "Things  have  been  pretty  slow  around  here. 
Chicago  used  to  be  the  place  for  a  juror — none  better.  But 
I  been  thinkin*  of  going  west.  Not  that  I  heard  anything, 
mind  you,  about  any  of  these  cases."  Mr.  Martin  glowered 
virtuously.  "I  never  read  the  papers,  sir,  and  have  no  prej 
udices  whatsoever. 

"But  I've  just  been  feelin*  lately  that  there  are  wider 
opportunities  in  the  west  for  a  man  of  my  experience  and 
record  than  are  left  around  here." 


TO  BERT  WILLIAMS 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Bert  Williams,  in  his  best  "Under  the 
Bamboo  Tree"  dialect,  "If  you  like  mah  singin'  and  actin' 
so  much,  how  come,  you  bein*  a  writer,  you  don't  write  some- 
thin*  about  youah  convictions  on  this  subjeck?  Oh!  It's 
not  youah  depahtment!  Hm!  Tha's  jes*  mah  luck.  I  was 
always  the  mos*  unluckiest  puhson  who  ever  trifled  with  mis- 
f  oh  tune.  Not  his  depahtment!  Tha' — tha's  jes'  it.  I  never 
seems  to  fall  jes'  exactly  in  the  ri-right  depahtment. 

"May  I  ask,  without  meanin*  to  be  puhsonal,  jes'  what 
is  your  depahtment?  Murder!  Oh,  you  is  the  one  who  writes 
about  murders  and  murderuhs  foh  the  paper!  s  No  thin'  else? 
Is  tha'  so?  Jes'  murders  and  murderuhs  and — and  things 
like  tha'?  Well,  tha'  jes'  shows  how  deceivin'  looks  is,  fo* 
when  you  came  in  heah  I  says  to  mahself,  I  says,  'this  gen'le- 
man  is  a  critic  of  the  drama.*  And  when  I  sees  you  have  on 
a  pair  o*  gloves  I  added  quickly  to  mahself,  *Yes,  suh,  chances 
are  he  is  not  only  a  critic  of  the  drama,  but  likewise  even  pos- 
suhbly  a  musical  critic.'  Yes,  suh,  all  mah  life  I  have  had 
the  desire  to  be  interviewed  by  a  musical  critic,  but  no  matter 
how  hard  I  sing  or  how  frequently,  no  musical  critic  has  yet 
taken  cognizance  o*  me.  No,  suh,  I  get  no  cognizance  what 
soever. 

"Not  meanin*  to  disparage  you,  suh,  or  your  valuable 
depahtment.  Foh  if  you  is  in  charge  o*  the  murder  and  mur- 
deruh's  depahtment  o'  yo'  paper  possuhbly  some  time  you 
may  refer  to  me  lightly  between  stabbin's  or  shootin's  in  such 
wise  as  to  say,  foh  instance,  'the  doomed  man  was  listenin* 
to  Mr.  Williams'  latest  song  on  the  phonograph  when  he 
received  the  bullet  wound.  Death  was  instantaneous,  the 
doomed  man  dyin'  with  a  smile  on  his  lips.  Mr.  Williams' 
singin*  makes  death  easy — an'  desirable.* 

"What,  suh?  You  is!  Sam,  fetch  the  gen'leman  some 
o*  the  firewater,  the  non-company  brand,  Sam.  All  right, 

48 


say  when.  Aw,  shucks,  that  ain't  enough  to  wet  a  cat's 
whiskers.  Say  when  again.  There,  tha's  better.  Here,  Sam. 
You  got  to  help  drink  this.  It's  important.  The  gen'leman 
says  if  I  will  wait  a  little  while,  jes*  a  little  while,  he  is  goin'  to 
alter  his  depahtment  on  the  newspaper.  Wasn't  that  it? 
Oh,  I  see.  In  the  magazine.  Very  well.  Here's  to  what  you 
says  about  me  some  day  in  the  magazine.  An*  when  you 
writes  it  don't  forget  to  mention  somewhere  along  in  it  how 
when  1  was  playin'  in  San  Francisco  and  Sarah  Bernhardt 
was  playin'  there,  and  this  was  years  ago,  don'  forget  to 
mention  along  with  what  you  write  about  mah  singin*  and 
actin'  that  I  come  to  mah  dressing  room  one  evenin',  in  Frisco, 
and  there's  the  hugest  box  o'  flowers  you  ever  saw  with  mah 
name  on  it.  An'  I  open  it  up  and,  boy!  There  plain  as  the 
nose  on  your  face  is  a  card  among  the  flowers  readin',  *to  a 
fellow  artist,  from  Sarah  Bernhardt.*  And — whilst  we  are, 
so  to  speak,  on  the  subjeck — you  can  put  in  likewise  what 
Eleanora  Duse  said  o*  me.  You  know  who  she  is,  I  suppose, 
the  very  most  superlative  genius  o'  the  stage,  suh.  Yes,  suh, 
the  very  most.  An*  she  says  o*  me  when  she  went  back  to 
Italy,  how  I  was  the  best  artist  on  the  American  stage. 

"Artist!  Tha*  always  makes  Sam  laugh,  don't  it,  Sam, 
when  he  heahs  me  refuhed  to  as  artist.  An* — have  another 
beaker  o'  firewater,  suh.  It's  strictly  non-company  brand. 
An'  here's  how  again  to  tha*  day  you  speak  of  when  you  write 
this  article  about  me.  An',  boy,  make  it  soon,  'cause  this 
life,  this  sinful  theat'ical  life,  is  killin*  me  fast.  But  I'll  try 
an*  wait.  Here's  howdy/' 

He  didn't  wait.  And  today  a  lazy,  crooked  grin  and  a 
dolorous-eyed  black  face  drift  among  the  shades  in  the  Val 
halla  where  the  Great  Actors  sit  reading  their  press  notices  to 
one  another.  The  Great  Actors  who  have  died  since  the  day 
of  Euripides — they  sit  around  in  their  favorite  make-ups  in 
the  Valhalla  reserved  for  all  good  and  glorious  Thespians. 

49 


A  company  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  that  would  make 
Mr.  Belasco's  heart  stop  beating!  The  Booths  and  Barretts 
from  antiquity  down,  the  Mrs.  Siddonses  and  Pattis,  the 
Cyranos,  Hamlets,  buffoons  and  heroes.  All  of  them  in  their 
favorite  make-ups,  in  their  favorite  cap  and  bells,  their  favorite 
swords,  their  favorite  doublet  and  hose — all  of  them  sit  around 
in  the  special  Valhalla  of  the  Great  Actors  reading  their  press 
notices  to  one  another  and  listening  to  the  hosannas  of  such 
critics  as  have  managed  to  pry  into  the  anterior  heaven. 

And  today  Bert  Williams  makes  his  entrance.  Yes,  suh, 
it  took  that  long  to  find  just  the  right  make-up.  To  get  just 
the  right  kind  of  ill-fitting  white  gloves  and  floppy  shoes  and 
nondescript  pants.  But  it's  an  important  entrance.  The  lazy 
crooked  grin  is  a  bit  nervous.  The  dolorous  eyes  peer  sadly 
through  the  opening  door  of  this  new  theater. 

Lawdy,  man,  this  is  got  a  Broadway  first  night  backed 
off  the  boards.  Rejane,  Caruso,  Coquelin,  Garrick  and  a 
thousand  others  sittin'  against  the  towering  walls,  sittin'  with 
their  eyes  on  the  huge  door  within*  to  see  who's  a-comin*  in 
now. 

All  right,  professor,  jes*  a  little  music.  Nothin*  much. 
Anything  kind  o'  sad  and  fidgetylike.  Tha's  it,  that-a-boy. 
There's  no  use  worryin* — much.  'Member  what  Duse  said  as 
I  was  the  greatest  artist,  an*  'member  how  Sarah  Bernhardt 
sent  me  roses  in  Frisco  an*  says,  'To  a  fellow  artist'?  Yes, 
suh,  they  can't  do  mo*  than  walk  out  on  me.  An*  ah's  been 
walked  out  on  befo'. 

All  right,  professor.  Tha's  it.  Now  I'll  stick  my  hand 
inside  the  door  and  wiggle  mah  fingers  kind  o*  slow  like. 
Jes*  like  that.  An*  I'll  come  on  slow.  No  thin*  to  worry  about 
— much, 

A  wrinkled  white-gloved  hand  moving  slowly  inside  the 
door  of  the  Valhalla.  Sad,  fidgety  music.  Silence  in  the 
great  hall.  This  is  another  one  coming  on — another  entrance. 

50 


A  lazy,  crooked  grin  and  a  dolorous-eyed  black  face.  Floppy 
shoes  and  woebegone  pants. 

Bravo,  Mr.  Williams!  The  great  hall  rings  with  hand- 
clapping.  The  great  hall  begins  to  fill  with  chuckles.  There 
it  is — the  same  curious  grin,  the  lugubrious  apology  of  a  grin, 
the  weary,  pessimistic  child  of  a  grin. 

The  Great  Actors,  eager-eyed  and  silent,  sit  back  on  their 
thrones.  The  door  of  the  Valhalla  of  Great  Actors  swings 
slowly  shut.  No  Flo  Ziegfeld  lighting  this  time,  but  a  great 
shoot  of  sunshine  for  a  "garden."  And  the  music  different, 
easier  to  sing  to,  somehow.  Music  of  harps  and  flutes.  And 
a  deep  voice  rises. 

Yes,  I  would  have  liked  to  have  been  there  in  the 
Valhalla  of  the  Great  Actors,  when  Bert  Williams  came  shuf 
fling  through  the  towering  doors  and  stood  singing  his  entrance 
song  to  the  silent,  eager-eyed  throng  of  Rejanes,  Barretts  and 
Coquelins — 

Ah  ain't  ever  done  nothin'  to  nobody, 

Ah  ain't  ever  got  nothin'  from  nobody — no  time,  nohow. 

Ah  ain't  ever  goin*  t*  do  nothin'  for  nobody — 

Till  somebody — 


— **     HI  MICHIGAN  AVENUE 

This  is  a  deplorable  street,  a  luxurious  couch  of  a  street 
in  which  the  afternoon  lolls  like  a  gaudy  sybarite.  Overhead 
the  sky  stretches  itself  like  a  holiday  awning.  The  sun  lays 
harlequin  stripes  across  the  building  faces.  The  smoke  plumes 
from  the  I.  C.  engines  scribble  gray,  white  and  lavender  fan 
tasies  against  the  shining  air. 

A  deplorable  street — a  cement  and  plate  glass  Circe. 
We  walk — a  long  procession  of  us.  It  is  curious  to  note  how 
we  adjust  ourselves  to  backgrounds.  In  other  streets  we  are 
hurried,  flurried,  worried.  We  summon  portentous  frowns  to 
our  faces.  Our  arms  swinging  at  our  sides  proclaim,  "Make 
way,  make  way!  We  are  launched  upon  activities  vital  to 
the  commonwealth!'* 

But  here — the  sun  bursts  a  shower  of  little  golden  balloons 
from  the  high  windows.  The  green  of  a  park  makes  a  cool 
salaam  to  the  beetle-topped  traffic  of  automobiles.  Rubber 
tires  roll  down  the  wide  avenue  and  make  a  sound  like  the 
drawn-out  striking  of  a  match.  Marble  columns,  fountains, 
incompleted  architectural  elegancies,  two  sculptured  lions 
and  the  baffling  effulgence  of  a  cinder-veiled  museum  offer 
themselves  like  pensively  anonymous  guests.  And  we  walk  like 
Pierrots  and  Pierrettes,  like  John  Drews  and  Jack  Barrymores 
and  Leo  Ditrichsteins;  like  Nazimovas,  Patricia  Collinges  and 
Messalinas  on  parole. 

I  have  squandered  an  afternoon  seduced  from  labors  by 
this  Pied  Piper  of  a  street.  And  not  only  I  but  everybody  I 
ever  knew  or  heard  of  was  in  this  street,  strutting  up  and  down 
as  if  there  were  no  vital  projects  demanding  their  attention, 
as  if  life  were  not  a  stern  and  productive  routine.  And  where 
was  the  Rotary  Club?  Not  a  sign  of  the  Rotary  Club.  One 
billboard  would  have  saved  me;  the  admonitions  that  "work 
is  man's  duty  to  his  nation/'  that  my  country  needed  me  as 
much  in  peace  as  in  war,  would  have  scattered  the  insidious 

5* 


HMsBH 


spell  of  this  street  and  sent  me  back  to  the  typewriter  with  at 
least  a  story  of  some  waiter  in  a  loop  beanery  who  was  once  a 
reigning  prince  of  Patagonia. 

But  there  was  no  sign,  no  billboard  to  inspire  me  with 
a  sense  of  duty.  So  we  strutted — the  long  procession  of  us— 
a  masquerade  of  leisure  and  complacency.  Here  was  a  street 
in  which  a  shave  and  a  haircut,  a  shine  and  a  clean  collar 
exhilarated  a  man  with  a  feeling  of  power  and  virtue.  As  if 
there  were  nothing  else  to  the  day  than  to  decorate  himself  for 
the  amusement  of  others. 

There  were  beggars  in  the  street  but  they  only  add  by 
way  of  contrast  to  the  effulgence  of  our  procession.  And, 
besides,  are  they  beggars?  Augustus  Caesar  attired  himself 
in  beggar's  clothes  one  day  each  year  and  asked  alms  in  the 
highways  of  Rome. 

I  begin  to  notice  something.  An  expression  in  our  faces 
as  we  drift  by  the  fastidious  ballyhoos  of  the  shop  windows. 
We  are  waiting  for  something — actors  walking  up  and  down 
in  the  wings  waiting  for  their  cues  to  go  on.  This  is  intelligible. 
This  magician  of  a  street  has  created  the  illusion  in  our  heads 
that  there  are  adventure  and  romance  around  us. 

Fauns,  Pierrots,  Launcelots,  Leanders — we  walk,  expect 
antly  waiting  for  our  scenes  to  materialize.  Here  the  little 
steno  in  the  green  tarn  is  Lais  of  Corinth,  the  dowager  alighting 
from  the  electric  is  Zenobia.  Illusions  dress  the  entire  proces 
sion.  Semiramis,  Leda,  and  tailored  nymphs;  dryad  eyes 
gleam  from  powder-white  masks.  Or,  if  the  classics  bore  you, 
Watteau  and  the  rococo  pertness  of  the  Grand  Monarch.  And 
there  are  Gothic  noses,  Moorish  eyebrows,  Byzantine  slippers. 
Take  your  pick,  walk  up  and  down  and  wait  for  your  cue. 

There  are  two  lives  that  people  lead.  One  is  the  real 
life  of  business,  mating,  plans,  bankruptcies  and  gas  bills. 
The  other  is  an  unreal  life — a  life  of  secret  grandeurs  which 
compensate  for  the  monotony  of  the  days.  Sitting  at  our 
desks,  hanging  on  to  straps  in  the  street  cars,  waiting  for  the 

53 


dentist,  eating  in  silence  in  our  homes — we  give  ourselves  to 
these  secret  grandeurs.  Day-dreams  in  which  we  figure  as 
heroes  and  Napoleons  and  Don  Juans,  in  which  we  triumph 
sensationally  over  the  stupidities  and  arrogances  of  our 
enemies — we  think  them  out  detail  by  detail.  Sometimes  we 
like  to  be  alone  because  we  have  a  particularly  thrilling  inci 
dent  to  tell  ourselves,  and  when  our  friends  say  good-by  we 
sigh  with  relief  and  wrap  ourselves  with  a  shiver  of  delight  in 
the  mantles  of  imagination.  And  we  live  for  a  charming 
hour  through  a  fascinating  fiction  in  which  things  are  as  they 
should  be  and  we  startle  the  world  with  our  superiorities. 

This  street,  I  begin  to  understand,  is  consecrated  to  the 
unrealities  so  precious  to  us.  We  come  here  and  for  a  little 
while  allow  our  dreams  to  peer  timorously  at  life.  In  the 
streets  west  of  here  we  are  what  we  are — browbeaten,  weary- 
eyed,  terribly  optimistic  units  of  the  boobilariat.  Our  secret 
characterizations  we  hide  desperately  from  the  frowns  of 
windows  and  the  squeal  of  "L"  trains. 

But  here  in  this  Circe  of  streets  the  sun  warms  us,  the  sky 
and  the  spaces  of  shining  air  lure  us  and  we  step  furtively  out 
of  ourselves.  And  give  us  ten  minutes.  Observe — a  street 
of  heroes  and  heroines.  Actors  all.  Great  and  irresistible 
egoists.  Do  we  want  riches?  Then  we  have  only  to  raise  our 
finger.  Slaves  will  attend  with  sesterces  and  dinars.  A  street 
of  joyous  Caligulas  and  Neros,  with  here  and  there  a  Ghengis 
Khan,  an  Attila. 

The  high  buildings  waver  like  gray  and  golden  ferns  in 
the  sun.  The  sky  stretches  itself  in  a  holiday  awning  over 
our  heads.  A  breeze  coming  from  the  lake  brings  an  odorous 
spice  into  our  noses.  Adventure  and  romance!  Yes — and 
observe  how  unnecessary  are  plots.  Here  in  this  Circe  of 
streets  are  all  the  plots.  All  the  great  triumphs,  assassinations, 
amorous  conquests  of  history  unravel  themselves  within  a 
distance  of  five  blocks.  The  great  moments  of  the  world  live 
themselves  over  again  in  a  silent  make-believe. 

1 


Here  is  one  who  has  just  swum  the  Hellespont,  one  who 
has  subdued  Cleopatra;  here  one  whose  eyes  are  just  launching 
a  thousand  ships.  What  a  street  I 

The  afternoon  wanes.  Our  procession  turns  toward 
home.  For  a  few  minutes  the  elation  of  our  make-believes 
in  the  Avenue  lingers.  But  the  "L"  trains  crowd  up,  the  street 
cars  crowd  up.  It  is  difficult  to  remain  a  Caesar  or  a  Don 
Quixote.  So  we  withdraw  and  our  faces  become  alike  as  turtle 
backs. 

And  see,  the  afternoon  has  been  squandered.  There 
were  things  which  should  have  been  done.  I  blush  indignantly 
at  the  memory  of  my  thoughts  during  the  shining  hours  in  the 
Avenue.  For  I  spent  the  valuable  moments  conversing  with 
the  devil.  I  imagined  him  coming  for  me  and  for  two  hours 
I  elaborated  a  dialogue  between  him  and  myself  in  which  I 
gave  him  my  immortal  soul  and  he  in  turn  promised  to  write 
all  the  stories,  novels  and  plays  I  wanted.  All  I  would  have 
to  do  was  furnish  the  paper  and  leave  it  in  a  certain  place 
and  call  for  it  the  next  morning  and  it  would  be  completed — 
anything  I  asked  for,  a  story,  novel  or  play;  a  poem,  a  world- 
shattering  manifesto — anything. 

Alas,  I  am  still  in  possession  of  my  immortal  soul! 


jeoRi 

De 

LION 

AND 

TH6 
SOUP 


COEUR  DE  LION  AND  THE  SOUP  AND  FISH 

For  they're  hangin'  Danny  Deever — . 

The  voice  of  Capt.  MacVeigh  of  the  British  army  rose 
defiantly  in  the  North  La  Salle  Street  hall  bedroom.  The  her 
culean  captain,  attired  in  a  tattered  bathrobe,  underwear, 
socks  and  one  slipper,  patted  the  bottom  of  the  iron  with  his 
finger  and  then  carefully  applied  it  to  a  trouser  leg  stretched 
on  an  ironing  board  in  front  of  him. 

Again  the  voice: 

For  they're  hangin*  Danny  Deever; 
You  can  hear  the  death  march  play, 
And  they're  ta  ta  ta  da 
They're  taking  him  away, 
Ta   da  ta   ta — 

The  captain  was  on  the  rocks.  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi 
Or  how  saith  the  poet,  'The  lion  and  the  lizard  keep  the  courts 
where  Jamshid  gloried  and  drank  deep."  Bust,  was  the 
captain.  "Dying,  Egypt,  dying,  ebbs  the  crimson  life  blood 
fast."  Flatter  than  a  hoecake  was  the  captain. 

"Farewell,  my  bluebell,  farewell  to  thee,"  sang  the  cap 
tain  as  the  iron  crept  cautiously  over  the  great  trouser  leg 
of  his  Gargantuan  full-dress  suit.  African  mines  blown  up. 
Two  inheritances  shot.  A  last  remittance  blah.  Rent  bills, 
club  bills,  grocery  bills,  tailor  bills,  gambling  bills.  "Ho, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves,"  sang  the  intrepid  captain. 
Fought  the  bloody  Boers,  fought  the  Irawadi,  fought  the 
bloody  Huns,  and  what  was  it  Lady  B.  said  at  the  dinner  in 
his  honor  only  two  years  ago?  Ah,  yes,  here's  to  our  British 
Tartajrin,  Capt.  MacVeagh.  But  who  the  devil  was  Tartarin? 

Never  mind.  "There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-windin'  and 
ta  da  ta  ta  ta  tum,"^ang  Capt.  MacVeagh  and  he  took  up  the 
other  trouser  leg.  Egad,  what  a  life!  Not  a  sou  markee  left. 
Not  a  thin  copper,  not  a  farthing!  "Strike  me  blind,  me  wife's 
confined  and  I'm  a  blooming  father,"  sang  Capt.  MacVeagh, 

56 


"For  they're  hangin*  Danny  Deever,  you  can  hear  the  death 
inarch  play ** 

This  was  the  last  phalanx.  This  thing  on  the  ironing 
board  was  Horatius  at  the  bridge  holding  in  check  the  hordes 
of  false  Tarquin.  Everything  gone  but  this.  Not  even  a  pair 
of  pants  or  a  smoking  coat.  Not  a  blooming  thing  left  but  this 
— a  full-dress  suit  beginning  to  shine  a  bit  in  the  rear. 

'The  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast  when  through  an 
Alpine  village  passed' * — egad,  what  a  primitive  existence. 
Like  an  Irunti  in  the  Australian  bush.  Telling  time  by  the 
sun.  It  must  be  approachin'  six,  thought  the  captain  as  his 
voice  trailed  off. 

Beautiful  thought.  "Mabel,  little  Mabel,  with  her  face 
against  the  pane,  sits  beside  the  window,  looking  at  the  rain." 
That  was  Capt.  MacVeagh  of  the  British  army,  prisoner  in  a 
La  Salle  Street  hall  bedroom.  No  clothes  to  wear,  nothing 
but  the  soup  and  fish.  So  he  must  sit  and  wait  till  evening 
came,  till  a  gentleman  could  put  on  his  best  bib  and  tucker, 
and  then — allons!  Freshly  shaved,  pink  jowled,  swinging  his 
ebony  stick,  his  pumps  gleaming  with  a  new  coat  of  vase 
line,  off  for  the  British  Officers'  Club! 

All  day  long  the  herculean  captain  sulked  in  his  tent — 
an  Achilles  with  a  sliver  in  his  heel.  But  come  evening,  come 
the  gentle  shades  of  darkness,  and  presto!  Like  a  lily  of  the 
field,  who  spun  not  nor  toiled;  like  a  knight  of  the  boulevards, 
this  servant  of  the  king  leaped  forth  in  all  his  glory.  The 
landlady  was  beginning  to  lose  her  awe  of  the  dress  suit,  the 
booming  barytone  and  the  large  aristocratic  pink  face  of  her 
mysterious  boarder.  And  she  was  pressing  for  back  rent. 
But  the  club  was  still  tolerant. 

"A  soldier  o'  the  legion  lay  dyin'  in  Algiers,*'  chanted 
the  captain,  and  with  his  shoulders  back  he  strode  into  the 
wide  world.  A  meal  at  the  club,  and  gadzooks  but  his  stomach 
was  in  arms!  Not  a  bite  since  the  last  club  meal.  God  bless 
the  club! 

57 


"Get  a  job?"  repeated  the  captain  to  one  of  the  members, 
"I  would  but  the  devil  take  it,  how  can  a  man  go  around 
asking  for  a  job  in  a  dress  suit?  And  I'm  so  rotten  big  that 
none  of  my  friends  can  loan  me  a  suit.  And  my  credit  is 
gone  with  at  least  twelve  different  tailors.  I'm  sort  o'  taboo 
as  a  borrower.  Barry,  old  top,  if  you  will  chase  the  blighter 
after  another  highball,  I'll  drink  your  excellent  health." 

"There's  a  job  if  you  want  it  that  you  can  do  in  your 
dress  suit,"  said  his  friend  Barry.  "If  you  don't  mind  night 
work." 

"Not  at  all,"  growled  Capt.  MacVeagh. 

"Well,"  said  the  friend,  "there's  a  circus  in  town  and 
they  want  a  man  to  drive  the  chariot  in  the  chariot  race.  It's 
only  a  little  circus.  And  there's  only  three  chariots  in  the  race. 
You  get  $10  for  driving  and  $25  a  night  if  you  win  the  race. 
And  they  give  you  a  bloomin*  toga  to  put  on  over  your  suit, 
you  know,  and  a  ribbqn  to  tie  around  your  head.  And  there 
you  are." 

"Righto  I"  cried  the  captain,  "and  where  is  this  rendez 
vous  of  skill  and  daring?  I'm  off.  I'll  drive  that  chariot  out 
of  breath." 

Capt.  MacVeagh  got  the  job.  Capt.  MacVeagh  won  the 
first  race.  Clad  in  a  flapping  toga,  a  ribbon  round  his  fore 
head,  the  hero  of  the  British  army  went  Berserker  on  the  home 
stretch  and,  lashing  his  four  ponies  into  a  panic,  came  glo 
riously  down  the  last  lap,  two  lengths  ahead  and  twenty-five 
marvelous  coins  of  the  realm  to  the  good. 

That  night  at  the  club  Capt.  MacVeagh  stood  treat. 
British  wassail  and  what  not.  The  twenty-five  dollars  melted 
pleasantly  and  the  captain  fell  off  in  a  happy  doze  as  rosy 
fingered  Aurora  touched  the  city  roof-tops. 

But,  alas,  the  wages  of  sin!  For  the  captain  was  not  so 
good  when  he  mounted  his  chariot  the  second  night.  A 
beehive  buzzed  in  his  head  and  huge,  globular  disturbances 
seemed  to  fill  the  air.  And,  standing  waveringly  on  his  feet 

58 


as  the  giddy  chariot  bounced  down  the  track,  the  captain  let 
forth  a  sudden  yell  and  sailed  off  into  space.  The  chariot 
ponies  and  hero  of  the  British  army  had  gone  crashing  into 
the  side  lines. 

"When  they  brought  him  to  the  hospital  in  the  ambu 
lance,"  explained  the  captain's  friend,  "they  had  taken  the  toga 
off  him,  of  course,  and  the  old  boy  was  in  his  dress  clothes. 
This  kind  o*  knocked  their  eyes  out,  so  what  do  they  do  but 
give  him  the  most  expensive  suite  in  the  place  and  the  prettiest 
nurse  and  the  star  surgeon.  And  they  mend  and  feed  him 
up  for  two  weeks.  We  all  called  on  him  and  brought  him  a  few 
flowers.  The  lad  was  surely  in  clover. 

"The  hospital  authorities  had  nothing  to  go  on  but  this 
dress  suit  as  evidence.  And  when  the  nurse  asked  him  what 
he  wanted  done  with  the  suit,  saying  it  was  a  bit  torn  from 
the  accident,  MacVeagh  waves  his  hand  and  answers,  'Oh, 
throw  the  blasted  thing  out  of  the  window  or  give  it  to  the 
janitor.'  And  she  did.  I  always  thought  it  quite  a  story.*' 

"But  how  did  it  end?  What  became  of  the  captain 
when  they  found  out  he  couldn't  pay  his  bill  and  all  that? 
And  where* s  he  now?" 

"You'll  have  to  end  the  thing  to  suit  yourself,"  said  the 
captain's  friend.  "All  I  know  is  that  after  almost  forgetting 
about  MacVeagh  I  got  a  letter  from  him  from  London  yester 
day.  A  rather  mysterious  letter  on  Lady  Somebody's  sta 
tionery.  It  read  something  like  this:  "The  paths  of  glory  lead 
but  to  the  grave.  Thanks  for  the  flowers.  And  three  cheers, 
me  lad,  for  the  British  Empire.** 


THE  SYBARITE 

They  had  been  poor  all  their  lives.  The  neighbors  said: 
"It's  a  wonder  how  the  Sikoras  get  along." 

They  lived  in  a  rear  flat.  Four  rooms  that  were  dark 
and  three  children  that  were  noisy.  The  three  children  used 
Wabansia  Avenue  as  a  playground.  Dodging  wagons  and 
trucks  was  a  diversion  which  played  havoc  with  their  shoes, 
but  increased  their  skill  in  dodging  wagons  and  trucks. 

The  neighbors  said:  "Old  man  Sikora  is  pretty  sick. 
It's  a  wonder  where  they'll  get  money  to  pay  the  doctor." 

Then  old  man  Sikora,  who  wasn't  so  old  (but  poverty 
and  hard  work  with  a  pick  give  a  man  an  aged  look),  was 
taken  to  the  county  hospital.  The  Sikora  children  continued 
to  dodge  wagons  and  trucks  and  Mrs.  Sikora  went  out  three 
days  a  week  to  do  washing.  And  the  milkman  and  the  grocer 
came  around  regularly  and  explained  to  Mrs.  Sikora  that  they, 
too,  had  to  live  and  she  must  pay  her  bills. 

Then  the  neighbors  said:  "Did  you  hear  about  it?  Old 
man  Sikora  died  last  night  in  the  hospital.  What  will  poor 
Mrs.  Sikora  do  now?  They  ain't  got  a  thing." 

And  old  man  Sikora  was  brought  home  because  his 
widow  insisted  upon  it.  The  neighbors  came  in  and  looked 
at  the  body  and  wept  with  Mrs.  Sikora,  and  the  children  sat 
around  after  school  and  looked  uncomfortably  at  the  walls. 
And  some  one  asked:  "How  you  going  to  bury  him,  Mrs. 
Sikora?" 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Sikora,  "I'm  going  to  have  a  good 
funeral." 

There  was  an  insurance  policy  for  $500.  The  Sikoras 
had  kept  it  up,  scraping  together  the  $10  premiums  when  the 
time  came.  Mrs.  Sikora  took  the  policy  to  the  husband  of  a 
woman  whose  washing  she  had  done.  The  husband  was  in 
the  real  estate  business. 


"I  need  money  to  bury  my  man,"  she  said.  "He  died 
last  night  in  the  hospital." 

She  was  red-eyed  and  dressed  in  black  and  the  real  estate 
man  said:  "What  do  you  want?" 

When  Mrs.  Sikora  explained  he  gave  her  $400  for  the 
policy  and  she  went  to  an  undertaker.  Her  eyes  were  still 
red  with  crying.  They  stared  at  the  luxurious  fittings  of  the 
undertaker's  parlors.  There  were  magnificent  palms  in  mag 
nificent  jardinieres,  and  plush  chairs  and  large,  inviting  sofas 
and  an  imposing  mahogany  desk  and  a  cuspidor  of  shining 
brass.  Mrs.  Sikora  felt  thrilled  at  the  sight  of  these  luxuries. 

Then  the  undertaker  came  in  and  she  explained  to  him. 

The  neighbors  said:  "Are  you  going  to  Mr.  Sikora' s 
funeral?  It's  going  to  be  a  big  funeral.  I  got  invited  yester 
day." 

Wabansia  Avenue  was  alive  with  automobiles.  Innumer 
able  relatives  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sikora  arrived  in  automobiles, 
their  faces  staring  with  surprise  out  of  the  limousine  windows 
as  if  they  were  seeing  the  world  from  a  new  angle.  There 
were  also  neighbors.  These  were  dressed  even  more  impres 
sively  than  the  relatives.  But  everybody,  neighbors  and 
relatives,  had  on  their  Sunday  clothes.  And  the  unlucky  ones 
who  hadn't  been  invited  leaned  out  of  the  windows  of  Waban 
sia  Avenue  and  looked  enviously  at  the  entourage. 

There  was  a  band — fifteen  pieces.  And  there  was  one 
open  automobile  filled  with  flowers,  filled  to  overflowing. 
The  band  stopped  in  front  of  the  Sikora  flat,  or  rather  in 
front  of  the  building,  for  the  Sikora  flat  was  in  the  rear  and 
Mrs.  Sikora  didn't  want  the  band  to  stop  in  the  alley.  Then 
the  envious  ones  leaning  out  of  the  windows  couldn't  see  the 
band  and  that  would  be  a  drawback. 

The  band  played,  great,  sad  songs.  The  cornets  and 
trombones  sent  a  muted  shiver  through  the  street.  The  band 
stopped  playing  and  the  people  leaning  out  of  the  windows 
sighed.  Ah,  it  was  a  nice  funeral  I 

61 


Inside  the  Sikora  house  four  men  stood  up  beside  the 
handsome  black  coffin  and  sang.  Mrs.  Sikora  in  a  voluminous 
black  veil  listened  with  tears  running  from  her  face.  Never 
had  she  heard  such  beautiful  singing  before — all  in  time  and 
all  the  notes  sweet  and  inspiring.  She  wept  some  more  and 
solicitous  arms  raised  her  to  her  feet.  Solicitous  arms  guided 
her  out  of  the  flower-filled  room  as  six  men  lifted  the  black 
coffin  and  carried  it  into  the  street. 

Slowly  the  automobiles  rolled  away.  And  behind  the 
open  car  heaped  with  flowers  rode  Mrs.  Sikora.  The  dolorous 
music  of  the  band  filled  her  with  a  gentle  ecstasy.  The  flower 
scents  drifted  to  her  and  when  her  eyes  glanced  furtively 
out  of  the  back  window  of  the  limousine  she  could  see  the 
procession  reaching  for  almost  a  half  block.  All  black  li 
mousines  filled  with  faces  staring  in  surprise  at  the  street. 

And  in  front  of  the  flower  car  in  an  ornamental  hearse 
rode  Mr.  Sikora.  The  wheels  of  the  hearse  were  heavily  tired. 
They  made  no  sound  and  the  chauffeur  was  careful  that  his 
precious  burden  should  not  be  joggled. 

Slowly  through  the  loop  the  procession  picked  its  way. 
Crowds  of  people  paused  to  stare  back  at  the  staring  ones 
in  the  automobiles  and  to  listen  to  the  fine  music  that  rose 
above  the  clamor  of  the  "L"  trains  and  the  street  cars  and 
the  trucks. 

The  sun  lay  over  the  cemetery.  The  handsome  black 
coffin  went  out  of  sight.  The  fifteen  musicians  began  to  play 
once  more  and  Mrs.  Sikora,  weeping  anew,  allowed  solicitous 
arms  to  help  her  back  into  the  limousine  and  with  a  sigh  she 
leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes  and  let  herself  weep  while  the 
music  played,  while  the  limousine  rolled  smoothly  along.  It 
was  like  a  dream,  a  strange  thing  imagined  or  read  about 
somewhere. 

The  neighbors  sniffed  indignantly.  "Did  you  hear  about 
Mrs.  Sikora?"  they  said.  These  were  the  same  ones  who 

62 


had  leaned  enviously  out  of  the  Wabansia  Avenue  windows. 

"She  spent  all  her  insurance  money  on  a  crazy  funeral,*' 
the  neighbors  said,  "and  did  you  hear  about  it?  The  Juvenile 
Court  is  going  to  take  her  children  away  because  she  can't 
support  them.  The  officer  was  out  to  see  her  yesterday  and 
she's  got  no  money  to  pay  her  bills.  She  spent  the  whole  money 
— it  was  something  like  $2,000 — on  the  funeral.  Huh!'* 

Mrs.  Sikora,  weeping,  explained  to  the  Juvenile  Court 
officer. 

"My  man  died,'*  she  said,  "and — and  I  spent  the  money 
for  the  funeral.  It  was  not  for  myself,  but  for  him  I  spent 
the  money.'* 

It  will  turn  out  all  right,  some  day.  And  in  the  meantime 
Mrs.  Sikora,  when  she  is  washing  clothes  for  someone,  will 
be  able  when  her  back  aches  too  much  to  remember  the  day 
she  rode  in  the  black  limousine  and  the  band  played  and  the 
air  was  filled  with  the  smell  of  flowers. 


DAPPER  PETE  AND  THE  SUCKER  PLAY 

Dapper  Pete  Handley,  the  veteran  con  man,  shook  hands 
all  around  with  his  old  friends  in  the  detective  bureau  and 
followed  his  captors  into  the  basement.  Another  pinch  for 
Dapper  Pete;  another  jam  to  pry  out  of.  The  cell  door  closed 
and  Pete  composed  his  lean,  gambler's  face,  eyed  his  mani 
cured  nails  and  with  a  sigh  sat  down  on  the  wooden  cell  bench 
to  wait  for  his  lawyer. 

"Whether  I'm  guilty  of  this  or  not,"  said  Dapper  Pete, 
**it  goes  to  show  what  a  sucker  a  guy  is — even  a  smart  guy. 
This  ain't  no  sermon  against  a  life  of  crime  I'm  pulling,  mind 
you.  I'm  too  old  to  do  that  and  my  sense  of  humor  is  workin* 
too  good.  I'm  only  savin'  what  a  sucker  a  guy  is — sometimes. 
Take  me/' 

Dapper  Pete  registered  mock  woe. 

"Not  that  I'm  guilty,  mind  you,  or  anything  like  that. 
But  on  general  principles  I  usually  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
the  coppers.  Especially  when  there's  been  a  misunderstanding 
concerning  some  deal  or  other.  Well,  how  I  happen  to  be 
here  just  goes  to  show  what  a  sucker  a  guy  is — even  me.*' 

Pressed  for  the  key  to  his  self-accusation,  Dapper  Pete 
continued : 

"I  come  straight  here  from  Grand  Island,  Neb.  I  had 
a  deal  on  in  Grand  Island  and  worked  it  for  a  couple  of 
months.  And  after  I  finished  there  was  trouble  and  I  left. 
I  knew  there  would  be  warrants  and  commotion,  the  deal 
having  flopped  and  a  lot  of  prominent  citizens  feeling  as  if 
they  had  been  bilked.  You  know  how  them  get-rich-quick 
investors  are.  If  they  don't  make  3,000  per  cent  profit  over 
night  they  raise  a  squawk  right  away.  And  wanna  arrest  you. 

"So  I  lit  out  and  came  to  Chicago  and  when  I  got  here 
some  friends  of  mine  tipped  me  off  that  there  was  considerable 
hunt  for  me.  Well,  I  figured  that  the  Nebraska  coppers  had 
let  out  a  big  holler  and  I  thought  it  best  to  lay  kind  of  low 

64 


and  keep  out  of  trouble.     That  was  only  last  week,  you  see. 

"So  I  get  the  bright  idea.  Layin'  around  town  with 
nothin*  to  do  but  keep  out  of  sight  ain't  the  cinch  it  sounds. 
You  get  so  sick  and  tired  of  your  own  company  that  you're 
almost  ready  to  throw  your  arms  around  the  first  harness  bull 
you  meet. 

"But,"  smiled  Dapper  Pete,  "I  restrained  myself.** 

There  was  time  out  while  Pete  discussed  the  irresponsi 
bility,  cruelty  and  selfishness  of  policemen  in  general.  After 
which  he  continued  with  his  original  narrative: 

"It  was  like  this,"  he  said.  "I  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
would  take  in  a  few  of  the  points  of  interest  in  the  city  I  ain't 
ever  got  around  to.  Being  a  Chicagoan,  like  most  Chicagoans 
I  ain't  ever  seen  any  of  our  natural  wonders  at  all.  So  first 
day  out  I  figured  that  the  place  no  copper  would  ever  look 
for  me  would  be  like  the  Field  Museum  and  in  the  zoo  and  on 
the  beach  and  like  that. 

"So,  first  of  all,  I  join  a  rubberneck  crowd  in  one  of 
the  carryalls  with  a  megaphone  guy  in  charge.  And  I  ride 
around  all  day.  I  got  kind  of  nervous  owing  to  the  many 
coppers  we  kept  passing  and  exchanging  courtesies  with.  But 
I  stuck  all  day,  knowing  that  no  sleuth  was  going  looking  for 
Dapper  Pete  on  a  rubberneck  wagon. 

"Well,  then  I  spent  three  days  in  the  Field  Museum, 
eyeing  the  exhibits.  Can  you  beat  it?  I  walk  around  and 
walk  around  rubbering  at  mummies  and  bones  and — well, 
I  ain't  kiddin',  but  they  was  among  the  three  most  interesting 
days  I  ever  put  in.  And  I  felt  pretty  good,  too,  knowin*  that 
no  copper  would  be  thinking  of  Dapper  Pete  as  being  in  the 
museums. 

"Then  after  that  I  went  to  the  zoo  and  rubbered  at  the 
animals  and  birds.  And  I  sat  in  the  park  and  watched  Comi 
cal  ball  games  and  golf  games  and  the  like.  And  then  I  went 
on  some  of  those  boats  that  run  between  no  place  and  nowhere 
—you  get  on  at  a  pier  and  ride  for  a  half  hour  and  get  off 

65 


.., 


at  a  pier  and  have  to  call  a  taxi  in  order  to  find  your  way 
back  to  anywhere.  You  get  me? 

"I'm  tellin*  you  all  this,"  said  Dapper  Pete  cautiously, 
"with  no  reference  to  the  charges  involved  and  for  which  I 
am  pinched  and  incarcerated  for,  see?  But  I  thought  you 
might  make  a  story  out  of  the  way  a  guy  like  me  with  all  my 
experience  dogin*  coppers  can  play  himself  for  a  sucker. 

"Well,  pretty  soon  I  pretty  near  run  out  of  rube  spots 
to  take  in.  And  then  I  think  suddenly  of  the  observation 
towers  like  on  the  Masonic  Temple  and  the  Wrigley  Building. 
I  headed  for  them  right  away,  figuring  to  take  a  sandwich 
or  so  along  and  spend  the  day  leisurely  giving  the  city  the 
once  over  from  my  eerie  perch. 

"And  when  I  come  home  that  night  and  told  my  friends 
about  it  they  was  all  excited.  They  all  agreed  that  I  had 
made  the  discovery  of  the  age  and  all  claimed  to  feel  sorry 
they  wasn't  hiding  out  from  the  coppers,  just  for  the  sake  of 
bein'  able  to  lay  low  on  top  of  a  loop  building.  It  does  sound 
pretty  good,  even  now.  \, 

"I  was  on  my  fifth  day  and  was  just  walking  in  on  the 
Masonic  Temple  observation  platform  when  things  began 
to  happen.  You  know  how  the  city  looks  from  high  tip.  Like 
a  lot  of  toys  crawling  around.  And  it's  nice  and  cool  and 
on  the  whole  as  good  a  place  to  lay  low  in  as  you  want.  And 
there's  always  kind  of  comical  company,  see?  Rubes  on  their 
honeymoon  and  sightseers  and  old  maids  and  finicky  old 
parties  afraid  of  fallin*  off,  and  gals  and  their  Johns  lookin* 
for  some  quiet  place  to  spoon. 

Dapper  Pete  sighed  in  memory. 

"I  am  sitting  there  nibbling  a  sandwich,"  he  went  on, 
"when  a  hick  comes  along  and  looks  at  me." 

'*  'Hello,  pardner,'  he  says.  'How's  the  gas  mine  busi 
ness?' 

"And  I  look  at  him  and  pretend  I  don't  savvy  at  all. 
But  this  terrible  looking  rube  grins  and  walks  up  to  me,  so 

66 


help  me  God,  and  pulls  back  his  lapel  and  shows  me  the  big 
star. 

1  'You  better  come  along  peaceabul,*  he  says.  'I  know 
you,  Pete  Handley,'  just  like  that.  So  I  get  up  and  follow  this 
hick  down  the  elevator  and  he  turns  me  over  to  a  cop  on  State 
Street  and  I  am  given  the  ride  to  the  hoosegow.  Can  you 
beat  it?" 

"But  who  was  the  party  with  the  star  and  why  the  pinch?" 
I  asked  Dapper  Pete.  That  gentleman  screwed  his  lean, 
gambler's  face  into  a  ludicrous  frown. 

"Him,"  he  sighed,  "that  was  Jim  Sloan,  constable  from 
Grand  Island,  Neb.  And  they  sent  him  here  about  two  weeks 
ago  to  find  me.  See?  And  all  this  rube  does  is  ride  around 
in  rubberneck  wagons  and  take  in  the  museums  and  parks, 
having  no  idee  where  I  was.  He  figured  merely  on  enjoyin* 
himself  at  Nebraska's  expense. 

"And  he  was  just  on  the  observation  tower  lookin*  over 
the  city  in  his  rube  way  when  I  have  to  walk  into  him.  Yes, 
sir,  Pete  Handley,  and  there  ain't  no  slicker  guy  in  the  country, 
walkin'  like  a  prize  sucker  right  into  the  arms  of  a  Grand 
Island,  Neb.,  constable.  It  all  goes  to  show,"  sighed  Dapper 
Pete,  "what  a  small  world  it  is  after  all." 


WATERFRONT  FANCIES 

Man's  capacity  for  faith  is  infinite.  He  is  able  to  believe 
with  passion  in  things  invisible.  He  can  achieve  a  fantastic 
confidence  in  the  Unknowable.  Here  he  sits  on  the  break 
water  near  the  Municipal  Pier,  a  fishpole  in  his  hand,  staring 
patiently  into  the  agate-colored  water.  He  can  see  nothing. 
The  lake  is  enormous.  It  contains  thousands  of  square  miles 
of  water. 

And  yet  this  man  is  possessed  of  an  unshakable  faith 
that  by  some  mysterious  legerdemain  of  chance  a  fish,  with 
ten  thousand  square  miles  of  water  to  swim  in  safely,  will  seek 
out  the  little  minnow  less  than  an  inch  in  length  which  he  has 
lowered  beside  the  breakwater.  And  so,  the  victim  of  prepos 
terous  conviction,  he  sits  and  eyes  the  tip  of  his  fishpole  with 
unflagging  hope. 

It  is  warm.  The  sun  spreads  a  brightly  colored  but 
uncomfortable  woolen  blanket  over  their  heads.  A  tepid 
breeze,  reminiscent  of  cinders,  whirls  idly  over  the  warm 
cement.  Strung  along  the  pier  are  a  hundred  figures,  all  in 
identical  postures.  They  sit  in  defiance  of  all  logic,  all  math 
ematics.  For  it  is  easy  to  calculate  that  if  there  are  a  half 
million  fish  in  Lake  Michigan  and  each  fish  displaces  less  than 
five  cubic  inches  of  water  there  would  be  only  two  and  a  half 
million  cubic  inches  of  fish  altogether  lost  in  an  expanse  con 
taining  at  least  eight  hundred  billion  cubic  inches  of  water. 
Therefore,  the  chance  of  one  fish  being  at  any  one  particular 
spot  are  one  in  four  hundred  thousand.  In  other  words,  the 
odds  against  each  of  these  strangely  patient  men  watching  the 
ends  of  their  fishpoles — the  odds  against  their  catching  a  fish 
—are  four  hundred  thousand  to  one. 

It  is  therefore  somewhat  amazing  to  stand  and  watch 
what  happens  along  the  sunny  breakwater.  Every  three  min 
utes  one  of  the  poles  jerks  out  of  the  water  with  a  wriggling 
prize  on  the  hook. 

68 


"How  are  they  coming?"  we  ask. 

*'Oh,  so,  so,"  answers  one  of  the  fishermen  and  points 
mutely  to  a  string  of  several  dozen  perch  floating  under  his 
feet  in  the  water. 

Thus  does  man,  by  virtue  of  his  faith,  rise  above  the 
science  of  mathematics  and  the  barriers  of  logic.  Thus  is  his 
fantastic  belief  in  things  unseen  and  easily  disproved  vindi 
cated.  He  catches  fish  where  by  the  law  of  probabilities  there 
should  be  no  fish.  With  the  whole  lake  stretching  mockingly 
before  him  he  sits  consumed  with  a  preposterous,  a  fanatical 
faith  in  the  little  half-inch  minnow  dangling  at  the  end  of  his 
line. 

The  hours  pass.  The  sun  grows  hotter.  The  piles  of 
stone  and  steel  along  the  lake  front  seem  to  waver.  From  the 
distant  streets  come  faint  noises.  On  a  hot  day  the  city  is 
as  appealing  as  a  half-cooled  cinder  patch.  Poor  devils  in 
factories,  poor  devils  in  stores,  in  offices.  One  must  sigh 
thinking  of  them.  Life  is  even  vaster  than  the  lake  in  which 
these  fishermen  fish.  And  happiness  is  mathematically  elusive 
as  the  fish  for  which  the  fishermen  wait.  And  yet — 

An  old  man  with  a  battered  face.  A  young  man  with 
a  battered  face.  Silent,  stoical,  battered-looking  men  with 
fishpoles.  A  hundred,  two  hundred,  they  sit  staring  into  the 
water  of  the  lake  as  if  they  were  looking  for  something.  For 
fish?  Incredible.  One  does  not  sit  like  this  watching  for 
something  to  become  visible.  Why?  Because  then  there 
would  be  an  air  of  suspense  about  the  watcher.  He  would 
grow  nervous  after  an  hour,  when  the  thing  remained  still 
invisible,  and  finally  he  would  fall  into  hysterics  and  unques 
tionably  shriek. 

And  these  men  grow  calmer.  Then  what  are  they  looking 
at,  hour  after  hour,  under  the  hot  sun?  Nothing.  They  are 
letting  the  rhythm  of  water  and  sky  lull  them  into  a  sleep — a 
surcease  from  living.  This  is  a  very  poetical  thing  for  a 
hundred  battered-looking  men  to  attempt.  Yet  life  may  be 

69 


as  intimidating  to  honest,  unimaginative  ones  as  to  their  self- 
styled  superiors. 

There  are  many  types  fishing.  But  all  of  them  look 
soiled.  Idlers,  workers,  unhappy  ones — they  come  to  forget, 
to  let  the  agate  eye  of  the  lake  stare  them  into  a  few  hours 
of  oblivion. 

But  there  is  something  else.  Long  ago  men  hunted  and 
fished  to  keep  alive.  They  fought  with  animals  and  sat  with 
empty  stomachs  staring  at  the  water,  not  in  quest  of  Nirvanas 
but  of  fish.  So  now,  after  ages  and  ages  have  passed,  there 
is  left  a  vague  memory  of  this  in  the  minds  of  these  fishermen. 
This  memory  makes  them  still  feel  a  certain  thrill  in  the  busi 
ness  of  pursuit.  Even  as  they  sit,  stoical  and  inanimate,  forget 
ful  of  unpaid  bills,  unfinished  and  never-to-be-finished  plans 

there  comes  this  curious  thrill.  A  mouth  tugs  at  the  little 

minnow.  The  pole  jerks  electrically  in  the  hand.  Something 
alive  is  on  the  hook.  And  the  fisherman  for  an  instant 
recovers  his  past.  He  is  Ab,  fighting  with  an  evening  meal  off 
the  coast  of  Wales,  two  glacial  periods  ago.  His  body  quivers, 
his  muscles  set,  his  eyes  Hash. 

Zip  I  The  line  leaps  out  of  the  water.  Another  monster 
of  the  deep,  whose  conquest  is  necessary  for  the  survival  of 
the  race  of  man,  has  been  overcome.  There  he  hangs,  writh 
ing  on  a  hook  I  There  he  swings  toward  his  triumphant  foe, 
and  the  hand  of  the  fisherman  on  the  municipal  breakwater, 
trembling  with  mysterious  elation,  closes  about  the  wet,  firm 
body  of  an  outraged  perch. 

A  make-believe  hunt  that  now  bears  the  name  of  sport. 
Yes,  but  not  always.  Here  is  one  with  a  red,  battered  face 
and  a  curiously  practical  air  about  him.  He  is  putting  his 
fish  in  a  basket  and  counting  them.  Two  dozen  perch. 

-Want  to  sell  them?" 

He  shakes  his  head. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them?'* 

70 


He  looks  up  and  grins  slowly.  Then  he  points  to  his 
lips  with  his  fingers  and  makes  signs.  This  means  he  is 
dumb.  He  places  his  hand  over  his  stomach  and  grins  again. 
He  is  going  to  eat  them.  It  is  time  to  go  home  and  do  this, 
so  he  puts  up  his  fishpole  and  packs  his  primitive  parapher 
nalia — a  tin  can,  a  rusty  spike,  a  bamboo  pole. 

Here  is  one,  then,  who,  in  the  heart  of  the  steel  forest 
called  civilization,  still  seeks  out  long  forgotten  ways  of  keep 
ing  life  in  his  body.  He  hunts  for  fish. 

The  sun  slides  down  the  sky.  The  fishermen  begin  to 
pack  up.  They  walk  with  their  heads  down  and  bent  forward 
like  number  7s.  They  raise  their  eyes  occasionally  to  the 
piles  of  stone  and  steel  that  mark  the  city  front.  Back  to 
their  troubles  and  their  cinder  patch,  but — and  this  is  a  curious 
fact — their  eyes  gleam  with  hope  and  curiosity. 


THE  SNOB 


SNOB 


We  happen  to  be  on  the  same  street  car.  A  drizzle 
softens  the  windows.  She  sits  with  her  pasty  face  and  her 
dull,  little  eyes  looking  out  at  the  dripping  street.  Her  cotton 
suit  curls  at  the  lapels.  The  ends  of  her  shoes  curl  like  a  pair 
of  burlesque  Oriental  slippers.  She  holds  her  hands  in  her 
lap.  Red,  thick  fingers  that  whisper  tiredly,  "We  have 
worked,"  lie  in  her  lap. 

A  slavey  on  her  day  off.  There  is  no  mistaking  this. 
Nineteen  or  twenty  years  old,  homely  as  a  mud  fence;  ungrace 
ful,  doltish,  she  sits  staring  out  of  the  window  and  her  eyes' 
blink  at  the  rain.  A  peasant  from  southeastern  Europe,  a 
field  hand  who  fell  into  the  steerage  of  a  transatlantic  liner 
and  fell  out  again.  Now  she  has  a  day  off  and  she  goes  riding 
into  the  country  on  a  street  car. 

She  will  get  off  and  slosh  with  her  heavy  feet  through 
wet  grass.  She  will  walk  down  the  muddied  roads  and  drink 
in  the  odor  of  fields  and  trees  once  more.  These  are  romantic 
conjectures.  The  car  jolts  along.  It  is  going  west.  The  rain 
continues.  It  runs  diagonal  dots  across  the  window. 

Everybody  out.  This  is  the  end  of  the  line.  I  have  gone 
farther  than  necessary.  But  there  is  the  slavey.  We  have 
been  talking.  At  least  I  talked.  She  listened,  her  doltish 
face  opening  its  mouth,  her  little  eyes  blinking.  She  has  pim 
ples,  her  skin  is  muddied.  A  distressful-looking  creature. 

Yet  there  is  something.  This  is  her  day  off — a  day  free 
from  the  sweat  of  labor — and  she  goes  on  a  street  car  into 
the  country.  So  it  would  seem  that  under  this  blinking, 
frowzy  exterior  desire  spreads  its  wings.  She  has  memories, 
this  blousy  one.  She  has  dreams. 

The  drizzle  flies  softly  through  the  air.  The  city  has 
disappeared.  We  walk  down  an  incongruous  stretch  of  pave 
ment.  It  leads  toward  a  forest  or  what  looks  like  a  forest. 
There  are  no  houses.  The  sky  asserts  itself.  I  look  up,  but  the 

7« 


shambling  one  whose  clothes  become  active  under  water 
keeps  her  eyes  to  the  pavement.  This  is  disillusioning!  "Here, 
slavey,  is  the  sky,"  I  think;  "it  becomes  romantic  for  the 
moment  because  to  you  it  is  the  symbol  of  lost  dreams,  or 
happy  hours  in  fields.  To  me  it  is  nothing  but  a  sky.  I  have 
no  interest  in  skies.  But  I  am  looking  at  it  for  you  and  enjoy 
ing  it  through  your  romantic  eyes." 

But  her  romantic  eyes  are  oblivious.  They  consult  the 
Tain-washed  pavement  before  her  and  nothing  else.  Very 
well,  there  are  other  and  nicer  skies  in  her  heart  that  she 
contemplates.  This  is  an  inferior  sky  overhead.  We  walk  on. 

You  see,  I  have  been  wrong.  It  is  not  green  Reids  that 
lured  the  heavy  feet  of  this  slavey.  She  is  not  a  peasant 
Cinderella.  Grief,  yes,  hidden  sorrow,  has  led  her  here.  This 
is  a  cemetery. 

It  rains  over  the  cemetery.  There  is  silence.  The  white 
stones  glisten.  They  stand  like  beggars  asking  alms  of  the 
winding  paths.  And  this  blousy  one  has  come  to  be  close  to 
one  of  the  white  stones.  Under  one  of  them  lies  somebody 
whose  image  still  lives  in  her  heart. 

She  will  kneel  in  the  wet  grass  and  her  pasty  little  fate 
will  blink  its  dull  eyes  over  a  grave.  Like  a  little  clown  in 
her  curling  cotton  suit,  her  lumpy  shoes,  her  idiotic  hat,  she 
will  offer  her  tears  to  the  pitiless  silence  of  trees,  wind,  rain 
and  white  stones. 

"Do  you  like  them  there?"  She  asks.  She  points  to  a 
cluster  of  fancy  headstones. 

"Do  you?"  I  ask. 

She  smiles. 

"Oh  yes,"  she  says.  And  she  stops.  She  is  admiring 
the  tombstones.  We  walk  on. 

It  is  incredible.  This  blousy  one,  this  dull-eyed  one  has 
come'to'  the  cemetery  on  her  day  off — to  admire  the  tomb 
stones.  Ah,  here  is  drama  of  a  poignant  kind.  Let  us  pray 
God  there  is  nothing  pathologic  here  and  that  this  is  an  idyl 

73 


of  despair,  that  the  lumpish  little  slavey  sits  on  the  rain- 
washed  bench  dreaming  of  fine  tombstones  as  a  flapper  might 
dream  of  fine  dresses. 

Yes,  at  last  we  are  on  the  track.  We  talk.  These  are 
very  pretty,  she  says.  Life  is  dull.  The  days  are  drab.  The 
place  where  she  works  is  like  an  oven.  There  is  nothing  pretty 
to  look  at — even  in  mirrors  there  is  nothing  cool  and  pretty. 
Clothes  grow  lumpy  when  she  puts  them  on.  Boys  giggle  and 
call  names  when  she  goes  out.  And  so,  outcast,  she  comes 
here  to  the  cemetery  to  dream  of  a  day  when  something  cool 
and  pretty  will  belong  to  her.  A  headstone,  perhaps  a  stately 
one  with  a  figure  above  it.  It  will  stand  over  her.  She  will 
be  dead  then  and  unable  to  enjoy  it.  But  now  she  is  alive. 
Now  she  can  think  of  how  pretty  the  stone  will  look  and  thus 
enjoy  it  in  advance.  This,  after  all,  is  the  technique  of  all 
dreams. 

We  grow  confidential.  I  have  asked  what  sort  she  likes 
best,  what  sort  it  pleases  her  most  to  think  about  as  standing 
over  her  grave  when  she  dies.  And  she  has  pointed  some  out. 
It  rains.  The  trees  shake  water  and  the  wind  hurries  past  the 
white  stones. 

"I  will  tell  you  something,"  she  says.  "Here,  look  at 
this."  From  one  of  her  curled  pockets  she  removes  a  piece 
of  paper.  It  is  crumpled.  I  open  it  and  read: 

*'In  case  of  Accident  please  notify  Misses  Burbley,— — 
Sheridan  Road,  and  have  body  removed  to  Home  of  Parents 
who  are  residants  of  Corliss  Wisconsin  where  they  have  resided 
for  twenty  Years  and  the  diseased  is  a  only  Daughter  named 
Clara.  Age  nineteen  and  educated  in  Corliss  public  Schools 
where  she  Graduated  as  a  girl  but  came  to  Chicago  in  serch 
of  employment  and  in  case  of  accident  funeral  was  held 
from  Home  of  the  Parents,  many  Frends  attending  and  please 
Omit  flours.  ..." 

"I  got  lot  of  them  writ  out,"  said  Clara,  blinking.  "You 
wanna  read  more?  Why  I  write  them  out?  Oh,  because, 

74 


you  can't  tell,  maybe  you  get  run  over  and  in  accident  and 
how  they  going  to  know  who  you  are  or  what  to  do  with  the 
diseased  if  they  don't  find  something?" 

Her  thick  red  hands  grew  excited.  She  produced  fur 
ther  obituaries.  From  her  pocketbook,  from  her  bosom,  from 
her  pockets  and  one  from  under  her  hat.  I  read  them.  They 
were  all  alike,  couched  in  vaguely  bombastic  terms.  We  sat 
in  the  rain  and  I  thought: 

4 'Alas,  Clara  is  a  bounder.  A  snob.  She  writes  her 
own  obituaries.  Alive  she  can  think  of  herself  only  as  Clara, 
the  slavey  at  whom  the  boys  giggle  and  call  names.  But  dead, 
she  is  the  'deseased' — the  stately  corpse  commanding  unprec 
edented  attention.  The  prospect  stirs  a  certain  snobbishness 
in  her.  And  she  sits  and  writes  her  death  notices  out — using 
language  she  tries  to  remember  from  reading  the  funeral 
accounts  of  rich  and  powerful  people.'* 

Clara,  her  hat  awry,  her  doltish  body  sagging  in  the  rain 
—shuffled  down  the  dirt  road  once  more.  Her  outing  is  over. 
Cinderella  returns  to  the  ashes  of  life. 


THE  WAY  HOME 


ffigB)  «\c' 

iiiiii-!   W 
Si     W 

ii  f\! 

i"i''"iS  W> 


He  shuffles  around  in  front  of  the  Clinton  Street  employ 
ment  agency.  The  signs  say:  "Pick  men  wanted,  section 
hands  wanted,  farm  laborers  wanted.*' 

A  Mexican  stands  woodenly  against  the  window  front. 
His  eyes  are  open  but  asleep.  He  has  the  air  of  one  come 
from  a  far  country  who  lives  upon  memories. 

There  are  others — roughly  dressed  exiles.  Their  eyes 
occasionally  study  the  signs,  deciphering  with  difficulty  the 
crudely  chalked  words  on  the  bulletin  boards.  Slav,  Swede, 
Pole,  Italian,  Greek — they  read  in  a  language  foreign  to  them 
that  men  are  wanted  on  the  farms  in  the  Dakotas,  in  the 
lumber  camps,  on  the  roadbeds  in  Montana.  Hard-handed 
men  with  dull,  seamed  faces  and  glittering  eyes — the  spike- 
haired  proletaire  4pm  a  dozen  lands  looking  for  jobs. 

But  this  one  who  shuffles  about  in  a  tattered  mackinaw, 
huge  baggy  trousers  frayed  at  the  feet,  this  one  whose  giant's 
body  swings  loosely  back  and  forth  under  the  signs,  is  a  more 
curious  exile.  His  Mexican  brother  leaning  woodenly  against 
the  window  has  a  slow  dream  in  his  eyes.  Life  is  simple  to 
his  thought.  It  was  hard  for  him  in  Mexico.  And  adven 
ture  and  avarice  sent  him  northward  in  quest  of  easier  ways 
and  more  numerous  comforts.  Now  he  hunts  a  job  on  a  chilly 
spring  morning.  When  the  proper  job  is  chalked  up  on  the 
bulletin  board  he  will  go  in  and  ask  for  it.  He  stands  and 
waits  and  thinks  how  happy  he  was  in  the  country  he  aban 
doned  and  what  a  fool  he  was  to  leave  the  white  dust  of  its 
roads,  its  hills  and  blazing  suns.  And  some  day,  he  thinks, 
he  will  go  back,  although  there  is  nothing  to  go  back  for. 
Yet  it  is  pleasant  to  stand  and  dream  of  a  place  one  has 
known  and  whither  one  may  return. 

But  this  one  who  shuffles,  this  giant  in  a  tattered  mackinaw 
who  slouches  along  under  the  bulletin  signs  asking  for  section 
hands  and  laborers,  there  is  no  dream  of  remembered  places 
in  his  eyes.  Dull,  blue  eyes  that  peer  bewilderedly  out  of  a 

76 


powerful  and  empty  face.  The  forehead  is  puckered  as  if 
in  thought.  The  heavy  jaws  protrude  with  a  hint  of  ferocity 
in  their  set.  There  is  a  reddish  cast  to  his  hair  and  face  and 
the  backs  of  his  great  hands,  hanging  limply  almost  to  his 
knees,  are  covered  with  red  hair. 

The  nose  of  this  shuffling  one  is  larger  than  the  noses 
in  the  city  streets.  His  fingers  are  larger,  his  neck  is  larger. 
There  is  a  curious  earthy  look  to  this  shuffling  one  seldom  to 
be  seen  about  men  in  streets.  He  is  a  huge  creature  with 
great  thighs  and  Laocoon  sinews  and  he  towers  a  head  above 
his  brothers  in  front  of  the  employment  office.  He  is  of  a 
different  mold  from  the  men  in  the  street.  Strength  ripples 
under  his  tattered  mackinaw  and  his  stiff  looking  hands  could 
break  the  heads  of  two  men  against  each  other  like  eggshells 
while  they  rained  puny  blows  on  his  dull  face. 

And  yet  of  all  the  men  moving  about  on  the  pavement 
in  front  of  the  Clinton  Street  bulletin  boards  it  is  this  shuffling 
one  who  is  the  most  impotent  seeming.  His  figure  is  the  most 
helpless.  It  slouches  as  under  a  final  defeat.  His  eyes  are 
the  dullest. 

He  stops  at  the  corner  and  stands  waiting,  his  head 
lowered,  his  shoulders  hunched  in  and  he  looks  like  a  man 
weighed  down  by  a  harness. 

A  curious  exile  from  whose  blood  has  vanished  all  mem 
ory  of  the  country  to  which  he  belongs.  A  faraway  land, 
ages  beyond  the  sun-warmed  roads  of  which  his  Mexican 
brother  dreams  as  he  stands  under  the  bulletin  boards.  A 
land  which  the  ingenuity  of  the  world  has  left  forever  behind. 
This  is  a  land  that  once  reached  over  all  the  seas. 

For  it  was  like  this  that  men  once  looked  in  an  age  before 
the  myths  of  the  Persians  and  Hindus  began  to  fertilize  the 
animal  soul  of  the  race.  In  the  forests  north  of  the  earliest 
cities  of  Greece,  along  the  wild  coasts  tapering  from  the  Tatar 
lands  to  the  peninsula  of  the  Basques,  men  like  this  shuffling 
one  once  ranged  alone  and  in  tribes.  Huge,  powerful  men 

77 


whose  foreheads  sloped  back  and  whose  jaws  sloped  forward 
and  whose  stiff  hands  reached  an  inch  nearer  their  knees 
than  today. 

This  giant  in  the  tattered  mackinaw  is  an  exile  from  this 
land  and  there  is  no  dream  of  it  left  in  his  blood.  The  body 
of  his  fathers  has  returned  to  him.  Their  long,  loose  arms, 
their  thick  muscles  and  heavy  pounding  veins  are  his,  but 
their  voices  are  buried  too  deep  to  rise  again  in  him.  The 
mutterings  of  warrior  councils,  the  shouts  of  terrible  hunts  are 
lost  somewhere  in  him  and  he  shuffles  along,  his  sloping  fore 
head  in  a  pucker  of  thought  as  if  he  were  trying  to  remember. 
But  no  memories  come.  Instead  a  bewilderment.  The  swarm 
ing  streets  bewilder  him.  The  towering  buildings,  the  noises 
of  traffic  and  people  dull  his  eyes  and  bring  his  shoulders 
together  like  the  shoulders  of  some  helpless  captive. 

He  returns  to  the  employment  office  and  raises  his  eyes 
to  the  bulletin  boards.  He  reads  slowly,  his  large  lips  moving 
as  they  form  words.  In  another  day  or  another  week  he  will 
be  riding  somewhere,  his  dull  eyes  gazing  out  of  the  train 
window.  They  will  call  him  Ole  or  Pat  or  Jim  in  some  camp 
in  the  Dakotas  or  along  some  roadbed  in  Montana.  He  will 
stand  with  a  puny  pick  handle  in  his  huge  hands  and  his  arms 
will  rise  and  fall  mechanically  as  he  hews  away  along  a  deserted 
track.  And  his  forehead  will  still  be  puckered  in  a  frown  of 
bewilderment.  The  thing  held  in  his  fists  will  seem  like  a 
strange  toy. 

"Farm  laborers  in  Kansas/'  says  the  bulletin  board  as 
the  clerk  with  his  piece  of  chalk  re-enters  the  office.  The 
Mexican  slowly  removes  himself  from  the  window  and  the 
contemplation  of  memories.  Kansas  lies  to  the  south  and  to 
the  south  is  the  way  home.  He  goes  in  and  talks  to  the  man 
behind  the  long  desk. 

An  hour  later  the  clerk  and  his  piece  of  chalk  emerge. 
The  exiles  are  still  mooching  around  on  the  pavement  and  the 

78 


shuffling  one  stands  on  the  curb  staring  dully  at  the  street 
under  him. 

"Section  hands,  Alberta,  Canada,  transportation,"  says 
the  new  bulletin.  There  is  no  stir  among  the  exiles.  This  is 
to  the  north.  It  is  still  cold  in  the  north.  But  the  shuffling 
one  has  turned.  His  eyes  again  trace  the  crudely  chalked 
letters  of  the  bulletin  board.  His  lips  move  as  he  tells  himself 
what  is  written. 

And  then  as  if  unconsciously  he  moves  toward  the  door. 
Alberta  is  to  the  north  and  the  voices  that  lie  buried  deep 
under  the  giant's  mackinaw  whisper  darkly  that  to  the  north 
— to  the  north  is  the  way  home. 


THE  PIG 


"Sofie  Popapovitch  versus  Anton  Popapovitch,"  cries 
the  clerk.  A  number  of  broken-hearted  matrons  awaiting  their 
turn  before  the  bar  of  justice  in  the  Domestic  Relations  Court 
find  time  to  giggle  at  the  name  Popapovitch. 

"Silence,"  cries  the  clerk.  Very  well,  silence.  Anton 
steps  out.  What's  the  matter  with  Anton?  An  indignant 
face,  its  chin  raised,  its  eyes  marching  defiantly  to  the  bar  of 
justice.  Sofie  too,  but  weeping.  And  a  lawyer,  Sofie's  lawyer. 

Well,  what's  up?  Why  should  the  Popapovitches  take 
up  valuable  time.  Think  of  the  taxpayers  supporting  this 
court  and  two  Popapovitches  marching  up  to  have  an  argu 
ment  on  the  taxpayers'  money.  Well,  that's  civilization. 

Ah,  ah!  It  appears  that  Anton,  the  rogue,  went  to  a 
grand  ball  and  raffle  given  by  his  lodge.  What's  wrong  with 
that?  Why  must  Sofie  weep  over  that?  Women  are  incred 
ible.  He  went  to  the  grand  ball  with  his  wife,  as  a  man 
should.  A  very  fine  citizen,  Anton.  He  belongs  to  a  lodge 
that  gives  grand  balls  and  he  takes  his  wife. 

Go  on,  says  the  judge,  what  happened?  What's  the 
complaint?  Time  is  precious.  Let's  have  it  in  a  nutshell. 

This  is  a  good  idea.  People  spend  a  frightful  lot  of 
unnecessary  time  weeping  and  mumbling  in  the  courts.  Mrs. 
Popapovitch  will  please  stop  weeping  and  get  down  to  brass 
tacks.  Very  well,  the  complaint  is,  your  honor,  that  Mr. 
Popapovitch  got  drunk  at  the  grand  ball.  But  that  wasn't 
the  end  of  it.  There's  some  more.  A  paragraph  of  tears  and 
then,  your  honor,  listen  to  this:  Mr.  Popapovitch  not  only 
got  drunk  but  he  took  a  chance  on  the  raffle  which  cost  one 
dollar  and  he  won. 

But  what  did  he  win  I  Oh,  oh!  He  won  a  pig.  A  live 
pig.  That  was  the  prize.  A  small,  live  pig  with  a  ribbon 
round  its  neck.  And,  says  Mrs.  Popapovitch  (there's  humor 
in  a  long  foreign-sounding  name  because  it  conjures  up  visions 

80 


of  bewildered,  flat-faced  people  and  bewildered,  flat-faced 
people  are  always  humorous),  and,  says  she,  they  had  been 
married  ten  years.  Happily  married.  She  washed,  scrubbed, 
tended  house.  There  were  no  children.  Well,  what  of  that? 
Lots  of  people  had  no  children. 

Anyway,  Anton  worked,  brought  home  his  pay  envelope 
O.  K.  And  then  he  wins  this  pig.  And  what  does  he  do? 
He  takes  it  home.  He  won't  leave  it  anywhere. 

"What!"  he  says,  "1  leave  this  pig  anywhere?  Are  you 
crazy?  It's  my  pig.  I  win  him.  I  take  him  home  with  me.*' 

And  then?  Well,  it's  midnight,  your  honor.  And  Anton 
carries  the  pig  upstairs  into  the  flat.  But  there's  no  place  to 
put  him.  Where  can  one  put  a  pig  in  a  flat,  your  honor? 
No  place.  The  pig  don't  like  to  stand  on  carpets.  And  what 
pig  likes  to  sleep  on  hard  wood  floors?  A  pig's  a  pig.  And 
what's  good  for  a  pig?  Aha!  a  pig  pen. 

So,  your  honor,  Anton  puts  him  in  the  bathtub.  And 
he  starts  down  stairs  with  a  basket  and  all  night  long  he  keeps 
bringing  up  basketfuls  of  dirt  dug  up  from  the  alley.  Dirt, 
cinders,  more  dirt.  And  he  puts  it  in  the  bathtub.  And 
what  does  the  pig  do?  He  squeals,  grunts  and  wants  to  go 
home.  He  fights  to  ge.t  out  of  the  bathtub.  There's  such  a 
noise  nobody  can  sleep.  But  Anton  says,  "Nice  little  pig.  I 
fix  you  up  fine.  Nice  little  pig." 

And  so  he  fills  the  bathtub  up  with  dirt.  Then  he  turns 
on  the  water.  And  what  does  he  say?  He  says,  "Now,  little 
pig,  we  have  fine  mud  for  you.  Nice  fine  mud."  Yes,  your 
honor,  a  whole  bathtub  full  of  mud.  And  when  the  pig  sees 
this  he  gets  happy  and  lies  down  and  goes  to  sleep.  And 
Anton  sits  in  the  bathroom  and  looks  at  the  pig  all  night  and 
says,  "See.  He's  asleep.  It's  like  home  for  him." 

But  the  next  day  Anton  must  go  to  work.  All  right,  he'll 
go  to  work.  But  first,  understand  everybody,  he  don't  want 
this  pig  touched.  The  pig  stays  in  the  bathtub  and  he  must 
be  there  when  he  comes  home. 

81 


All  right.  The  pig  stays  in  the  bathtub,  your  honor. 
Anton  wants  it.  Tomorrow  the  pig  will  be  killed  and  that'll 
be  an  end  for  the  pig. 

Anton  comes  home  and  he  goes  in  the  bathroom  and  he 
sits  and  looks  at  the  pig  and  complains  the  mud  is  dried  up 
and  why  don't  somebody  take  care  of  his  pig.  His  damn 
pig.  He  brings  up  more  dirt  and  makes  more  mud.  And  the 
pig  tries  to  climb  out  and  throws  mud  all  over  the  bathroom. 

That's  one  day.  And  then  there's  another  day.  And 
finally  a  third  day.  Will  Anton  let  anybody  kill  his  pig?  Aha! 
He'll  break  somebody's  neck  if  he  does.  But,  your  honor, 
Mrs.  Popapovitch  killed  the  pig.  A  terrible  thing,  isn't  it,  to 
kill  a  pig  that  keeps  squealing  in  the  bathtub  and  splashing 
mud  all  day? 

But  what  does  Anton  do  when  he  comes  home  and  Ends 
his  pig  killed?  My  God!  He  hits  her,  your  honor.  He  hits 
her  on  the  head.  His  own  wife  whom  he  loves  and  lives  with 
for  ten  years.  He  throws  her  down  and  hollers,  "You  killed 
my  little  pig!  You  good  for  nothing.  I'll  show  you." 

What  a  disgrace  for  the  neighbors!  Lucky  there  are  no 
children,  your  honor.  Married  ten  years  but  no  children. 
And  it's  lucky  now.  Because  the  disgrace  would  have  been 
worse.  The  neighbors  come.  They  pull  him  away  from  his 
wife.  Her  eye  is  black  and  blue.  Her  nose  is  bleeding.  That's 
all,  your  honor." 

A  very  bad  case  for  Anton  Popapovitch.  A  decidedly 
bad  case.  Step  forward,  Anton  Popapovitch,  and  explain  it, 
if  you  can.  Did  you  beat  her  up?  Did  you  do  this  thing? 
And  are  you  ashamed  and  willing  to  apologize  and  kiss  and 
make  up? 

Anton,  step  forward  and  tell  his  honor.  But  be  careful. 
Mrs.  Popapovitch  has  a  lawyer  and  it  will  go  bad  with  you 
if  you  don't  talk  carefully. 

All  right.  Here's  Anton.  He  nods  and  keeps  on  nod 
ding.  What  is  this?  What's  he  nodding  about?  Did  this 

82 


happen  as  your  wife  says,  Anton?  Anton  blows  out  his 
cheeks  and  rubs  his  workingman*  s  hand  over  his  mouth.  To 
think  that  you  should  beat  your  wife  who  has  always  been  good 
to  you,  Anton.  Who  has  cooked  and  been  true  to  you!  And 
there  are  no  children  to  worry  you.  Not  one.  And  you  beat 
her.  Bah,  is  that  a  man?  Don't  you  love  your  wife?  Yes. 
All  right,  then  why  did  you  do  it? 

Anton  looks  up  surprised.  "Because/*  says  Anton,  still 
surprised,  "like  she  say.  She  kill  my  pig.  You  hear  yourself, 
your  honor.  She  say  she  kill  him.  And  I  put  him  in  the 
bathtub  and  give  him  mud.  And  she  kill  him." 

But  is  that  a  reason  to  beat  your  wife  and  nearly  kill 
her?  It  is,  says  Anton.  Well,  then,  why?  Tell  the  judge, 
why  you  were  so  fond  of  this  pig,  Anton. 

Ah,  yes,  Anton  Popapovitch,  tell  the  judge  why  you 
loved  this  little  pig  so  much  and  made  a  home  for  him  with 
mud  in  the  bathtub.  Why  you  dreamed  of  him  as  you  stood 
working  in  the  factory?  Why  you  ran  home  to  him  and  fed 
him  and  sat  and  looked  at  him  and  whispered  "Nice  little 
pig?"  Why? 

God  knows.  But  Anton  Popapovitch  can't  explain  it. 
It  must  remain  one  o~f  the  mysteries  of  our  city,  your  honor. 
Call  the  next  case.  Put  Anton  Popapovitch  on  parole.  Per 
haps  it  was  because.  .  .  ,  well,  the  matter  is  ended.  Anton 
Popapovitch  sighs  and  looks  with  accusing  eyes  at  his  wife 
Sofie,  with  accusing  eyes  that  hint  at  evidence  unheard. 


THE  LITTLE  FOP 

This  little  caricature  of  a  fop,  loitering  in  the  hotel  lobby, 
enthralled  by  his  own  fastidiousness,  gazing  furtively  at  the 
glisten  of  his  newly  manicured  nails  and  shuddering  with  awe 
at  the  memory  of  the  puckered  white  silk  lining  inside  his 
Prince  of  Wales  derby — I've  watched  him  for  more  than  a 
month  now.  Here  he  comes,  his  pointed  button  shoes,  his 
razor-edged  trousers,  his  natty  tan  overcoat  with  its  high 
waist  band  and  its  amazing  lapels  that  stick  up  over  his  shoul 
ders  like  the  ears  of  a  jackass,  here  he  comes  embroidered  and 
scented  and  looking  like  a  cross  between  a  soft-shoe  dancer 
and  a  somnambulist.  And  here  he  takes  his  position,  holding 
his  gloves  in  his  hand,  his  Prince  of  Wales  derby  jammed 
down  on  his  patent-leather  hair. 

Observe  him.  This  is  a  pose.  He  is  living  up  to  a 
fashion  illustration  in  one  of  the  magazines.  Or  perhaps  he 
is  duplicating  an  attitude  of  some  one  studied  in  a  Michigan 
Avenue  club  entrance.  His  right  arm  is  crooked  as  if  he  were 
about  to  place  his  hand  over  his  heart  and  bow.  His  left  arm 
hangs  with  a  slight  curve  at  his  side.  His  feet  should  be 
together,  but  they  shift  nervously.  His  head  is  turned  to  the 
left  and  slightly  raised — like  a  movie  actor  posing  for  a  cigar 
ette  advertisement. 

And  there  he  stands,  a  dead  ringer  for  one  of  the  waxen 
dummies  to  be  seen  in  a  Halsted  Street  Men's  Snappy  Furnish 
ings  Store. 

I've  watched  him  for  a  month,  off  and  on.  And  his 
face  still  says  nothing.  His  eyes  are  curiously  emotionless. 
They  appear  suddenly  in  his  face.  He  is  undersized.  His 
nose,  despite  the  recent  massage  and  powder,  has  a  slight 
oleaginous  gleam  to  it.  The  cheek  bones  are  a  bit  high,  the 
mouth  a  trifle  wide  and  the  chin  slightly  bulbous.  As  he  blinks 
about  him  with  his  small,  almost  Mongolian  eyes  he  looks  like 
some  honest  little  immigrant  from  Bohemia  or  Poland  whom 

85 


a  malignant  sorcerer  has  changed  into  a  caricature  fashion 
plate.  This  is,  indeed,  the  legend  of  Cinderella  and  the  fairy 
godmother  with  an  ending  of  pathos. 

Yet,  though  his  face  says  nothing,  there  is  a  provoking 
air  to  this  little  fop.  His  studied  inanimation,  his  crudely  self- 
conscious  pose,  his  dull,  little,  peasant  eyes  staring  at  the  faces 
that  drift  by  in  the  lobby — these  ask  for  translation.  Why  is 
he  here?  What  does  he  want?  Why  does  he  come  every 
evening  and  stand  and  watch  the  little  hotel  parade?  Ah, 
one  never  sees  him  in  the  dining  room  or  on  the  dance  floor. 
One  never  meets  him  between  the  acts  in  the  theater  lobby. 
And  one  never  sees  him  talking  to  anybody.  He  is  always 
alone.  People  pass  him  with  a  curious  glance  and  think  to 
themselves,  *'Ah,  a  young  man  about  town!  What  a  shame 
to  dissipate  like  that!"  They  sometimes  notice  the  masterly 
way  in  which  he  sizes  up  a  fur-coated  "chicken"  stalking  thin- 
leggedly  through  the  lobby  and  think  to  themselves:  "The 
scoundrel!  He's  the  kind  of  creature  that  makes  a  big  city 
dangerous.  A  carefully  combed  and  scented  vulture  waiting 
to  swoop  down  from  the  side  lines." 

Evening  after  evening  between  6  o'clock  and  midnight 
he  drifts  in  and  out  of  the  lobby,  up  and  down  Randolph 
Street  and  takes  up  his  position  at  various  points  of  vantage 
where  crowds  pass,  where  women  pass.  I've  watched  him. 
No  one  ever  talks  to  him.  There  are  no  salutations.  He  is 
unknown  and  worse.  For  the  women,  the  rouged  and  orna 
mental  ones,  know  him  a  bit  too  well.  They  know  the  care 
fully  counted  nickels  in  his  trousers  pocket,  the  transfers  he 
is  saving  for  the  three-cent  rebate  that  may  come  some  day, 
the  various  newspaper  coupons  through  which  he  hopes  to 
make  a  killing. 

All  this  they  know  and  through  a  sixth  sense,  a  curious 
instinct  of  sex  divination,  they  know  the  necktie  counter  or 
information  desk  behind  which  he  works  during  the  day,  the 
stuffy  bedroom  to  which  he  will  go  home  to  sleep,  the  vacuity 

86 


of  his  mind  and  gaudy  emptiness  of  his  spirit.  They  know 
all  this  and  pass  him  up  with  never  a  smile.  Yes,  even  the 
manicure  girls  in  the  barber  shop  give  him  the  out-and-out 
sneer  and  the  hat-check  girls  and  even  the  floor  girls — the 
chambermaids — all  of  whom  he  has  tried  to  date  up — they  all 
respond  with  an  identical  raspberry  to  his  invitations. 

But  he  asks  for  translation — this  determined  little  cari 
cature  of  the  hotel  lobby.  A  little  peasant  masquerading  as 
a  dazzled  moth  around  the  bright  lights.  Not  entirely.  There 
is  something  else.  There  is  something  of  a  great  dream  behind 
the  ridiculous  pathos  of  this  over-dressed  little  fool.  There 
is  something  in  him  that  desires  expression,  that  will  never 
achieve  expression,  and  that  will  always  leave  him  just  such 
an  absurd  little  clown  of  a  fop. 

When  the  manicure  girls  read  this  they  will  snort. 
Because  they  know  him  too  well.  *'Of  all  the  half-witted 
dumbbells  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,"  they  will  say,  "he  wins  the 
cement  earmuffs.  Nobody  home,  honest  to  Gawd,  he's 
nothin'  but  a  nasty  little  fourflusher.  We  know  him  and  his 
kind/' 

Fortunately  I  don't  know  him  as  well  as  the  manicure 
girls  do,  so  there  is  room  for  this  speculation  as  I  watch  him 
in  the  evening  now  and  then.  I  see  him  standing  under  the 
blaze  of  lobby  lights,  in  the  thick  of  passing  fur  coats  and 
dinner  jackets,  in  the  midst  of  laughter,  escorts,  intrigues, 
actors,  famous  names. 

He  stands  perfectly  still,  with  his  right  arm  crooked  as 
if  he  were  going  to  place  his  hand  over  his  heart  and  bow, 
with  his  left  arm  slightly  curved  at  his  side.  Grace.  This  is 
a  pose  denoting  grace.  He  got  it  somewhere  from  an  illus 
tration.  And  he  holds  it.  Here  is  life.  The  real  stuff.  The 
real  thing.  Lights  and  laughter.  Glories,  coiffures,  swell 
dames,  great  actors,  guys  loaded  with  coin.  His  little  Mon 
golian  eyes  blink  through  his  amusing  aplomb.  Here  are 
gilded  pillars  and  marbled  walls,  great  rugs  and  marvelous 

87 


furniture.     Here  music  is  playing  somewhere  and  people  are 
eating  off  gold-edged  dishes. 

And  now  you  will  smile  at  me,  not  him.  Because  watch 
ing  him  of  evenings,  on  and  off,  a  curious  notion  takes  hold 
of  my  thoughts.  I  have  noticed  the  race  oddities  of  his  face, 
the  Mongolian  eyes,  the  Slavic  cheek  bones,  the  Italian  hair. 
A  mixed  breed,  this  little  fop.  Mixed  through  a  dozen  cen 
turies.  Fathers  and  mothers  that  came  from  a  hundred  parts 
of  the  earth.  But  down  the  centuries  they  had  one  thing  in 
common.  Servitude.  The  Carlovingian  courts,  the  courts  of 
the  De  Medici,  the  Valois,  and  long  before  that,  the  great 
houses  that  lay  around  the  Roman  hills.  Dragged  from  their 
villages,  east,  west,  north  and  south,  they  flitted  in  the  trap 
pings  of  servitude  through  the  vast  halls  of  tyrants,  barons, 
Caesars,  sybarites,  debauchees.  They  were  the  torchbearers, 
the  caitiffs,  the  varlets,  the  bathkeepers,  the  inanimate  figures 
whose  faces  watched  from  the  shadows  the  great  orgies  of 
Tiberius,  the  bacchanals  of  satraps,  kings,  captains  and  squires. 

And  here  their  little  great-great-grandson  stands  as  they 
stood,  the  ghost  of  their  servitude  in  his  sluggish  blood.  He 
is  content  with  his  role  of  watcher  as  his  people  were  content. 
These  slightly  grotesque  trappings  of  his  are  a  disguise.  He 
wishes  to  disguise  the  fact  that  he  is  of  the  torchbearers,  the 
varlets,  the  bathkeepers  who  produced  him.  So  he  imitates 
servilely  what  he  fancies  to  be  the  distinguishing  marks  of 
his  betters — their  clothes,  their  manners,  their  aplomb.  This 
accomplished,  he  is  content  to  yield  himself  to  the  mysterious 
impulses  and  dreams  that  move  silently  through  him. 

And  so  he  takes  his  position  beside  his  people — the  mixed 
breeds  dragged  from  their  scattered  villages — so  he  stands 
as  they  stood  through  the  centuries,  their  faces  watching  from 
the  shadows  the  gorgeousness  and  tumult  of  the  great  aris 
tocrats. 


MOTTKA 

Since  most  of  the  great  minds  that  have  weighed  the 
subject  have  arrived  at  the  opinion  that  between  poverty  and 
crime  there  is  an  inevitable  affinity,  the  suspicion  with  which 
the  eye  of  Policeman  Billings  rested  upon  Mottka,  the  vender 
of  roasted  chestnuts,  reflected  creditably  upon  that  good  offi 
cer's  grasp  of  the  higher  philosophies. 

Policeman  Billings,  sworn  to  uphold  the  law  and  assist 
in  the  protection  of  property,  viewed  the  complications  and 
mysteries  of  the  social  system  with  a  simple  and  penetrating 
logic.  The  rich  are  not  dangerous,  reasoned  Policeman 
Billings,  because  they  have  what  they  want.  But  the  poor 
who  have  not  what  they  want  are,  despite  paradox  and  prec 
edent,  always  to  be  watched  closely.  A  raggedly  dressed 
man  walking  in  a  dark,  lonely  street  may  be  honesty  itself. 
Yet  rags,  even  when  worn  for  virtue's  sake,  are  a  dubious 
assurance  of  virtue.  They  are  always  ominous  to  one  sworn 
to  protect  property  and  uphold  the  law. 

There  is  a  maxim  by  Chateaubriand,  or  perhaps  it  was 
Stendhal — maxims  have  a  way  of  leaving  home — which  claims 
that  the  equilibrium  of  society  rests  upon  the  acquiescence 
of  its  oppressed  and  unfortunate. 

in  passing  the  battered  chestnut  roaster  of  the  unfortunate 
Mottka,  Policeman  Billings  was  aware  in  his  own  way  of  the 
foregoing  elements  of  social  philosophy.  Mottka  had  chosen 
for  his  little  shop  an  old  soapbox  which  a  wastrel  providence 
had  deposited  in  the  alley  on  Twenty-second  Street,  a  few 
feet  west  of  State  Street.  Here  Mottka  sat,  nursing  the  fire 
of  his  chestnut  roaster  with  odd  bits  of  refuse  which  seldom 
reached  the  dignity  of  coal  or  even  wood. 

He  was  an  old  man  and  the  world  had  used  him  poorly. 
He  was,  in  fact,  one  of  those  upon  whom  the  equilibrium  of 
the  social  system  rests.  He  was  unfortunate,  oppressed  and 
acquiescent.  Arriving  early  in  the  forenoon  he  set  up  his 

89 


I  19  Li. 

IliiitllQ 


shop,  lighted  his  fire  and  took  his  place  on  the  soapbox.  When 
the  lights  began  to  wink  out  along  this  highway  of  evil  ghosts 
Mottka  was  still  to  be  seen  hunched  over  his  chestnut  roaster 
and  waiting. 

Policeman  Billings  strolling  over  his  beat  was  wont  to 
observe  Mottka.  There  were  many  things  demanding  the 
philosophical  attention  of  Policeman  Billings.  Not  so  long 
ago  the  neighborhood  which  he  policed  had  been  renowned 
to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth  as  the  rendezvous  of  more 
temptations  than  even  St.  Anthony  enumerated  in  his  inter 
esting  brochure  on  the  subject.  And  Policeman  Billings  felt 
the  presence  of  much  of  this  evil  lingering  in  the  brick  walls, 
broken  windows  and  sagging  pavements  of  the  district. 

It  was  after  a  number  of  days  on  the  beat  that  Policeman 
Billings  began  to  take  Mottka  seriously.  There  was  something 
curious  about  the  chestnut  vender,  and  the  eye  of  the  good 
officer  grew  narrow  with  suspicion.  "This  man,**  reasoned 
Policeman  Billings,  "makes  pretense  of  being  a  vender  of 
roasted  chestnuts.  He  sits  all  day  in  the  alley  between  two 
saloons.  I  have  never  noticed  him  sell  any  chestnuts.  And 
come  to  think  of  it,  I  have  never  seen  more  than  a  half-dozen 
chestnuts  on  his  roasting  pan.  I  begin  to  suspect  that  this 
old  man  is  a  fraud  and  that  his  roasting  chestnuts  is  a  blind. 
He  is  very  likely  a  lookout  for  some  bootlegger  gang  or  crim 
inal  mob.  And  I  will  keep  an  eye  on  him.'* 

Mottka  remained  unaware  of  Policeman  Billing's  atten 
tion.  He  continued  to  sit  hunched  over  his  roaster,  nursing 
the  little  fire  under  it  as  best  he  could — and  waiting.  But 
finally  Policeman  Billings  called  himself  to  his  attention  in 
no  uncertain  way. 

"What's  your  name?'*  asked  the  good  officer,  stopping 
before  the  chestnut  vender. 

"Mottka,"  answered  Mottka. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  here?"  asked  Policeman  Bill 
ings,  frowning. 

90 


"I  roast  chestnuts  and  sell  them,'*  said  Mottka. 

"Hm!"  said  Policeman  Billings,  "you  do,  eh?  Well, 
we'll  see  about  that.  Come  along." 

Mottka  rose  without  question.  One  does  not  ask  ques 
tions  of  an  officer  of  the  law.  Mottka  stood  up  and  put  the 
fire  out  and  put  the  handful  of  chestnuts  in  his  pocket  and 
picked  up  his  roaster  and  followed  the  officer.  A  half-hour 
later  Mottka  stood  before  the  sergeant  in  the  Twenty-second 
street  station. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  asked  the  sergeant. 

And  Policeman  Billings  explained. 

"He  claims  to  be  selling  chestnuts  and  roasting  them. 
But  I  never  see  him  sell  any,  much  less  do  I  see  him  roasting 
any.  He's  got  about  a  dozen  chestnuts  altogether  and  I  think 
he  may  bear  looking  into." 

"What  about  it,  Mottka?"  asked  the  sergeant. 

Mottka  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head  and 
smiled  deprecatingly. 

"Nothing,"  he  said,  "I  got  a  chestnut  roaster  I  got  from 
a  friend  on  the  West  Side.  And  I  try  to  make  business.  I 
got  a  license." 

"But  the  officer  says  you  never  roast  any  chestnuts  and 
he  thinks  you're  a  fake." 

"Yes,  yes,"  smiled  Mottka;  "I  don't  have  so  many 
chestnuts.  I  can't  afford  only  a  little  bit  at  a  time.  Some  time 
I  buy  a  basket  of  chestnuts." 

"Where  do  you  live,   Mottka?" 

"Oh,  on  the  West  Side.     On  the  West  Side." 

"And  what  did  you  do  before  you  roasted  chestnuts?" 

"Me?  Oh,  I  was  in  a  business.  Yes,  in  a  business.  And 
it  failed.  So  I  got  the  chestnut  roaster.  I  got  a  license." 

"It  seems  to  me  I've  seen  you  before,  Mottka." 

"Yes,  yes.  A  policeman  bring  me  here  before  when  I 
was  on  Wabash  Avenue  with  my  chestnuts." 

"What  did  he  bring  you  in  for?" 

91 


"Oh,  because  he  thinks  I  am  a  crook,  because  I  don't 
have  enough  chestnuts  to  sell.  He  says  I  am  a  lookout  for 
crooks  and  he  brings  me  in/* 

Mottka  laughed  softly  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  am  no  crook.  Only  I  am  too  poor  to  buy  more  chest 
nuts.*' 

Policeman  Billings  frowned,  but  not  at  Mottka. 

"Here,"  said  the  good  officer,  and  he  handed  Mottka  a 
dollar.  Three  other  upholders  of  the  law  were  present  and 
they  too  handed  Mottka  money. 

"Go  and  buy  yourself  some  chestnuts,  Mottka,*'  said 
the  sergeant,  "so  the  officers  won't  be  runnin*  you  in  on  sus 
picion  of  bein*  a  criminal." 

Now  Mottka' s  chestnut  roaster  in  the  alley  off  State  Street 
is  full  of  chestnuts.  A  bright  fire  burns  under  the  pan  and 
Mottka  sits  watching  the  chestnuts  brown  and  peel  as  they 
roast.  And  if  you  were  to  ask  him  about  things  he  would 
say: 

"Tell   something?      What  is  there   to   tell?      Nothing." 


"FA'N  TA  MIGI" 

Avast  and  belay  there!  Take  in  the  topgallants,  wind 
up  the  mizzenmast  and  reef  the  elects!  This  is  Tobias  Wooden- 
Leg  plowing  his  way  through  a  high  sea  in  Grand  Avenue. 

Aye,  what  a  night,  what  a  night!  The  devil  astride  the 
jib  boom,  his  tail  lashing  in  the  wind.  "Pokker!"  says  Tobias, 
**fa'n  ta  mig.  Hold  tight  and  here  we  go!" 

The  boys  in  the  Elite  poolroom  stand  grinning  in  the 
doorway.  Old  Norske  Tobias  is  on  a  tear  again,  his  red  face 
shining  with  the  memory  of  Stavanger  storms,  his  beard  brist 
ling  like  a  north  cat's  back.  An  Odin  in  caricature. 

They  watch  him  pass.  Drunker  than  a  fiddler's  wench. 
Drunker  than  a  bootlegger's  pal.  Drunk  as  the  devil  himself 
and  roaring  at  the  top  of  his  voice:  *'Belay,  there!  Hold  tight 
and  here  we  go!"  Poor  Tobias  Wooden-Leg,  the  years  keep 
plucking  out  his  hairs  and  twisting  his  fingers  into  talons. 
Seventy  years  have  squeezed  him.  And  they  have  brought 
him  piety  and  wisdom.  They  have  taught  him  virtue  and 
holiness. 

But  the  wind  suddenly  rises  and  comes  blowing  out  of 
Stavanger  again.  The  great  sea  suddenly  lifts  under  his  one 
good  leg.  And  Tobias  with  his  Bibles  and  his  prayer  books 
struggles  in  the  dark  of  his  Grand  Avenue  bedroom.  The 
devil  comes  and  sits  on  his  window  sill,  a  devil  with  long  locks 
and  bronze  wings  beside  his  ears  and  a  three-pronged  pitch 
fork  in  his  hand. 

"Ho,  ho!"  cries  this  one  on  the  window  sill.  "What  are 
you  doing  here,  Tobias?  With  the  north  wind  blowing  and 
the  gray  seas  standing  on  their  heads?  Grown  old,  Tobias, 
eh?  Sitting  in  a  corner  and  mumbling  over  litanies." 

And  it  has  always  been  like  that  since  he  came  to  Grand 
Avenue  ten  years  ago.  It  has  always  turned  out  that  Tobias 
takes  off  his  white  shirt  and  puts  on  his  sailor's  black  sweater 

93 


and  fastens  on  his  old  wooden  leg  and  follows  the  one  on  the 
window  sill. 

Avast  and  belay!  The  night  is  still  young  and  a  sailor 
man's  abroad.  The  sergeant  going  off  duty  at  the  Chicago 
Avenue  station  passes  and  winks  and  calls:  "Hello,  Tobias. 
Pretty  rough  tonight.'* 

"Fa'n  ta  mig!"  roars  Tobias.  "Hold  tight.'*  And  he 
steers  for  Clark  Street.  And  now  the  one  on  the  window  sill 
is  gone  and  the  storm  grows  quiet.  And  poor  Tobias  Wooden- 
Leg,  the  venerable  and  pious,  who  has  won  the  grace  of  God 
through  a  terrific  fight,  finds  himself  again  lost  and  strayed. 

Of  what  good  were  the  prayers  and  the  night  after  night 
readings  in  the  old  sea  captain's  Bible  stolen  forty  years  ago? 
Of  what  good  the  promises  and  tears  of  repentance,  when  this 
thing  that  seemed  to  rise  out  of  forgotten  seas  could  come  and 
jump  up  on  his  window  sill  and  bewitch  him  as  if  he  were  a 
heedless  boy?  When  it  could  sit  laughing  at  him  until  in  its 
laugh  he  heard  the  sounds  of  old  winds  roaring  and  old  seas 
standing  on  their  heads,  and  he  put  on  his  black  sweater — the 
moth-eaten  badge  of  his  sinfulness — and  he  put  on  his  wooden 
leg  and  lifted  out  the  handful  of  money  from  under  the  corner 
of  the  carpet? 

What  good  were  the  prayers  if  they  couldn't  keep  him 
pious?  Yes,  that  was  it.  And  here  the  habitues  along  North 
Clark  Street  grin.  For  Tobias  Wooden-Leg  is  coming  down 
the  pavement,  his  head  hanging  low,  his  beard  no  longer 
bristling  and  his  soul  on  a  hunt  for  a  new  God.  A  strong 
God.  A  powerful  and  commanding  God,  stronger  than  the 
long-locked,  bronze-winged  one  of  the  window  sill. 

They  grin  because  this  is  an  old  story.  Tobias  is  an  old 
character.  Once  every  two  or  three  months  for  ten  years 
Tobias  has  come  like  this  with  his  head  lowered  searching 
for  a  new  and  powerful  God  that  would  keep  him  pious  and 
that  would  kill  the  devil  that  seemed  never  to  die  inside  his 
old  Norske  soul. 

94 


So  he  had  taken  them  all — a  jumble  of  gods,  a  patch 
work  of  religions.  Every  soapbox  apostle  in  the  district  had 
at  one  time  converted  him.  Holy  Roller,  Methodist,  Jumper, 
Yogi,  Swami,  Zionite — he  had  bowed  his  head  before  their 
and  a  dozen  other  varied  gods.  And  the  missions  in  the 
district  had  come  to  know  him  as  "the  convert."  He  had 
been  faithful  to  each  of  the  creeds  as  long  as  he  remained 
sober  and  as  long  as  he  sat  in  his  room  of  nights  reading  in 
his  Bible. 

But  come  a  storm  out  of  Stavanger,  come  a  whistling 
under  the  eaves  and  a  thumping  of  wind  on  the  window  pane 
and  Tobias  was  off  again.  "He  is  not  a  good  God!"  Tobias 
would  cry  in  his  new  "repentance."  "His  religion  is  too  weak. 
The  devil  is  stronger  than  Him.  I  want  a  stronger  religion. 

Pagh,  I  want  somebody  big  enough  to  kill  this  fanden  inside 

*, 
me. 

The  crowd  around  the  soapbox  evangelist  is  rather  slight. 
The  night  is  cold.  The  wind  bites  and  the  street  has  a  dismal 
air.  The  evangelist  stands  around  the  corner  from  the  old 
book  store  in  whose  windows  thousands  of  musty  volumes 
are  piled  like  the  bones  of  hermits.  The  man  who  owns  this 
curious  book  store  is  a  sun-worshipper.  And  the  evangelist 
on  the  soapbox  is  a  friend  of  his. 

The  slight  crowd  listens.  Peace  comes  from  the  sun. 
The  sun  is  the  source  of  light  and  of  health.  It  is  the  eye 
of  God.  Terrible  by  day  and  watching  by  night.  It  is  the 
fire  of  life.  The  slight  crowd  grins  and  the  evangelist,  his 
mind  bubbling  with  a  cabalistic  jargon  remembered  out  of 
musty  books,  tries  to  explain  something  that  seems  vivid  in 
his  heart  but  vague  to  his  tongue. 

They  will  drop  away  soon  because  the  night  is  cold  and 
the  evangelist  a  bit  too  nutty  for  serious  attention.  But  here 
comes  Tobias  Wooden-Leg  and  some  of  the  listeners  grin  and 
nudge  one  another.  Tobias,  with  his  voice  hoarse  and  his  blue 
eyes  shining  with  wrath — wrath  at  himself  and  wrath  at  the 

95 


God  who  had  abandoned  him,  unable  to  cope  with  the  one 
on  the  window  sill. 

Tobias  listens.  Terrible  by  day  and  ever  watchful  by 
night.  The  King  of  Kings,  the  Great  Majesty  and  secret  sym 
bol  of  the  absolute.  Tobias  drinks  in  the  jargon  of  the  soap 
box  man  and  then  shouts:  "I'll  join,  I'll  join!  I  want  a  strong 
God!" 

So  now  Tobias  Wooden-Leg  is  a  sun-worshipper.  The 
boys  in  the  Elite  poolroom  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  How 
he  walks  the  street  at  dawn  with  his  head  raised  and  bows 
every  seven  steps.  And  how  in  the  evening  he  is  to  be  seen 
standing  at  his  window  bowing  to  the  sun  going  down.  And 
how  he  has  been  around  saying:  "Well,  I  have  found  the 
big  God  at  last.  No  more  monkey  business  for  me.  Listen 
to  what  it  says  in  the  book  about  him."  And  how  he  will 
quote  from  the  sea  captain's  Bible  stolen  forty  years  ago. 

But  the  boys  also  say:  "Just  wait/' 

And  they  wink,  meaning  that  another  storm  will  blow 
up  out  of  Stavanger  in  Norway  and  old  Tobias  will  come  plow 
ing  down  the  street  again  howling  that  fa'n  ta  mig  the  devil 
has  him  and  that  old  Thor  leaped  on  his  window  sill  and  tossed 
the  all-powerful  sun  out  of  the  sky  with  his  hammer. 


FANTASTIC  LOLLYPOPS 

They  will  never  start.  No,  they  will  never  start.  In 
another  two  minutes  Mr.  Prokofieff  will  go  mad.  They  should 
have  started  at  eleven.  It  is  now  ten  minutes  after  eleven. 
And  they  have  not  yet  started.  Ah,  Mr.  Prokofieff  has  gone 
mad. 

But  Mr.  Prokofieff  is  a  modernist;  so  nobody  pays  much 
attention.  Musicians  are  all  mad.  And  a  modernist  musi 
cian,  du  lieber  Gott!  A  Russian  modernist  musician! 

The  medieval  face  of  Mr.  Boris  Anisfeld  pops  over  the 
rows  of  empty  seats.  It  is  very  likely  that  Mr.  Anisfeld  will 
also  go  mad.  For  Mr.  Anisfeld  is,  in  a  way,  a  collaborator  of 
Mr.  Prokofieff.  It  is  the  full  dress  rehearsal  of  "The  Love  for 
Three  Oranges."  Mr.  Prokofieff  wrote  .the  words  and  music. 
Mr.  Anisfeld  painted  the  scenery. 

"Mees  Garden  weel  be  hear  in  a  meenute,"  the  medieval 
face  of  Boris  whispers  into  the  Muscovite  ears  of  Serge. 

Eleven-fifteen,  and  Miss  Garden  has  arrived.  She  is 
armed,  having  brought  along  her  heaviest  shillalah.  Mr. 
Prokofieff  is  on  his  feet.  He  takes  off  his  coat.  The  medieval 
face  of  Mr.  Anisfeld  vanishes.  Tap,  tap,  on  the  conductor's 
stand.  Lights  out.  A  fanfare  from  the  orchestra's  right. 

Last  rehearsal  for  the  world  premier  of  a  modernist  opera  I 
One  winter  morning  years  ago  the  music  critics  of  Paris  sat 
and  laughed  themselves  green  in  the  face  over  the  incompre 
hensible  banalities  of  an  impossible  modernist  opera  called 
"Tannhauser."  And  who  will  say  that  critics  have  lost  their 
sense  of  humor.  There  will  unquestionably  be  laughter  before 
this  morning  is  over. 

Music  like  this  has  never  come  from  the  orchestra  pit  of 
the  Auditorium.  Strange  combinations  of  sounds  that  seem 
to  come  from  street  pianos,  New  Year's  eve  horns,  harmonicas 
and  old-fashioned  musical  beer  steins  that  play  when  you  lift 

97 


them  up.     Mr.  Prokofieff  waves  his  shirt-sleeved  arms  and  the 
sounds  increase. 

There  is  nothing  difficult  about  this  music — that  is,  unless 
you  are  unfortunate  enough  to  be  a  music  critic.  But  to  the 
untutored  ear  there  is  a  charming  capriciousness  about  the 
sounds  from  the  orchestra.  Cadenzas  pirouette  in  the  treble. 
Largos  toboggan  in  the  bass.  It  sounds  like  the  picture  of  a 
crazy  Christmas  tree  drawn  by  a  happy  child.  Which  is  a 
most  peculiar  way  for  music  to  sound. 

But,  attention!  The  curtain  is  up.  Bottle  greens  and 
fantastic  reds.  Here  is  a  scene  as  if  the  music  Mr.  Prokofieff 
were  waving  out  of  the  orchestra  had  come  to  life.  Lines 
that  look  fike  the  music  sounds.  Colors  that  embrace  one 
another  in  tender  dissonances.  Yes,  like  that. 

And  here,  galubcheck  (I  think  it's  galubcheck),  are  the 
actors.  What  is  it  all  about?  Ah,  Mr.  Prokofieff  knows  and 
Boris  knows  and  maybe  the  actors  know.  But  all  it  is  neces 
sary  for  us  to  know  is  that  music  and  color  and  a  quaint,  almost 
gargoylian,  caprice  are  tumbling  around  in  front  of  our  eyes 
and  ears. 

And  there  is  M.  Jacques  Coini.  He  will  not  participate 
in  the  world  premier.  Except  in  spirit.  Now  M.  Coini  is 
present  in  the  flesh.  He  wears  a  business  suit,  spats  of  tan 
and  a  gray  fedora.  M.  Coini  is  the  stage  director.  He  instructs 
the  actors  how  to  act.  He  tells  the  choruses  where  to  chorus 
and  what  to  do  with  their  hands,  masks,  feet,  voices,  eyes  and 
noses. 

The  hobgoblin  extravaganza  Mr.  Prokofieff  wrote  unfolds 
itself  with  rapidity.  Theater  habitues  eavesdropping  on  the 
rehearsal  mumble  in  the  half-dark  that  there  was  never  any 
thing  like  this  seen  on  earth  or  in  heaven.  Mr.  Anisf eld's 
scenery  explodes  like  a  succession  of  medieval  skyrockets.  A 
phantasmagoria  of  sound,  color  and  action  crowds  the  startled 
proscenium.  For  there  is  no  question  but  that  the  proscenium, 

98 


with  the  names  of  Verdi,  Bach,  Haydn  and  Beethoven  chiseled 
on  it,  is  considerably  startled. 

Through  this  business  of  skyrockets  and  crescendos  and 
hobgoblins  M.  Coini  stands  out  like  a  lighthouse  in  a  cubist 
storm.  However  bewildering  the  plot,  however  humpty- 
dumpty  the  music,  M.  Coini  is  intelligible  drama.  His  brisk 
little  figure  in  its  pressed  pants,  spats  and  fedora,  bounces 
around  amid  the  apoplectic  disturbances  like  some  busybody 
Alice  in  an  operatic  Wonderland. 

The  opus  mounts.  The  music  mounts.  Singers  attired  as 
singers  were  never  attired  before  crawl  on,  bounce  on,  tumble 
on.  And  M.  Coini,  as  undisturbed  as  a  traffic  cop  or  a  loop 
pigeon,  commands  his  stage.  He  tells  the  singers  where  to 
stand  while  they  sing,  and  when  they  don't  sing  to  suit  him 
he  sings  himself.  He  leads  the  chorus  on  and  tells  it  where 
to  dance,  and  when  they  don't  dance  to  suit  him  he  dances 
himself.  He  moves  the  scenery  himself.  He  fights  with  Mr. 
ProkofiefF  while  the  music  splashes  and  roars  around  him.  He 
fights  with  Boris.  He  fights  with  electricians  and  wigmakers. 

It  is  admirable.  M.  Coini,  in  his  tan  spats  and  gray 
fedora,  is  more  fantastic  than  the  entire  cast  of  devils  and 
Christmas  trees  and  lollypops,  who  seem  to  be  the  leading 
actors  in  the  play.  Mr.  Prokofieff  and  Miss  Garden  have  made 
a  mistake.  They  should  have  let  M.  Coini  play  'The  Love 
for  Three  Oranges"  all  by  himself.  They  should  have  let  him 
be  the  dream  towers  and  the  weird  chorus,  the  enchantress  and 
the  melancholy  prince.  M.  Coini  is  the  greatest  opera  I  have 
ever  seen.  All  he  needed  was  M.  Prokofieff's  music  and  the 
superbly  childish  visions  of  the  medieval  Boris  for  a  back 
ground. 

The  music  leaps  into  a  gaudy  balloon  and  sails  away  in 
marvelous  zigzags,  way  over  the  heads  of  the  hobgoblins  on 
the  stage  and  the  music  critics  off  the  stage.  Miss  Garden 
beckons  with  her  shillalah.  Mr.  Prokofieff  arrives  panting  at 
her  side.  He  bows,  kisses  the  back  of  her  hand  and  stands  at 

99 


attention.      Also  the  medieval   face  of  Mr.   Anisfeld   drifts 
gently  through  the  gloom  and  joins  the  two. 

The  first  act  of  "The  Oranges"  is  over.  Two  critics  ex 
changing  opinions  glower  at  Mr.  Prokofieff.  One  says:  "What 
a  shame!  What  a  shame!  Nobody  will  understand  it."  The 
other  agrees.  But  perhaps  they  only  mean  that  music  critics 
will  fail  to  understand  it  and  that  untutored  ones  like  ourselves 
will  find  in  the  hurdy-gurdy  rhythms  and  contortions  of  Mr. 
Prokofieff  and  Mr.  Anisfeld  a  strange  delight.  As  if  some 
one  had  given  us  a  musical  lollypop  to  suck  and  rub  in  our 
hair. 

I  have  an  interview  with  Mr.  Prokofieff  to  add.  The 
interview  came  first  and  doesn't  sit  well  at  the  end  of  these 
notes.  Because  Mr.  Prokofieff,  sighing  a  bit  nervously  in 
expectation  of  the  world's  premier,  said:  "I  am  a  classicist. 
I  derive  from  the  classical  composers." 

This  may  be  true,  but  the  critics  will  question  it.  Instead 
of  quoting  Mr.  Prokofieff  at  this  time,  it  may  be  more  apropos 
merely  to  say  that  I  would  rather  see  and  listen  to  his  opera 
than  to  the  entire  repertoire  of  the  company  put  together. 
This  is  not  criticism,  but  a  prejudice  in  favor  of  fantastic  lolly- 
pops. 


NOTES  FOR  A  TRAGEDY 

Jan  Pedlowski  came  home  yesterday  and  found  that  his 
wife  had  run  away.  There  was  supper  on  the  table.  And 
under  the  soup  plate  was  a  letter  addressed  to  Jan.  It  read, 
in  Polish: 

"I  am  sick  and  tired.  You  keep  on  nagging  me  all  the 
time  and  I  can't  stand  it  any  more.  You  will  be  better  off 
without  me. 

Paula/* 

Jan  ate  his  supper  and  then  put  his  hat  and  coat  on  and 
went  over  to  see  the  sergeant  at  the  West  Chicago  Avenue 
police  station.  The  sergeant  appeared  to  be  busy,  so  Jan 
waited.  Then  he  stepped  forward  and  said: 

"My  wife  has  run  away.     I  want  to  catch  her." 

The  sergeant  was  lacking  in  sympathy.  He  told  Jan  to 
go  home  and  wait  and  that  the  missus  would  probably  come 
back.  And  that  if  she  didn't  he  could  get  a  divorce. 

"I  don't  want  a  divorce,"  said  Jan.  "I  want  to  catch 
her." 

But  Jan  went  home.  It  was  no  use  running  around  look 
ing  for  her  and  losing  sleep.  And,  besides,  he  had  to  be  in 
court  tomorrow.  The  landlord  had  left  a  notice  that  the  Ped- 
lowskis  must  get  out  of  their  flat  because  they  didn't  pay  their 
rent. 

Before  coming  home  Jan  had  arranged  with  the  foreman 
at  the  plating  works  for  two  hours  off,  to  be  taken  out  of  his 
pay.  He  could  come  to  work  at  seven  and  work  until  half- 
past  nine,  then  go  to  court  and  be  back,  maybe,  by  half-past 
eleven. 

So  Jan  went  to  bed.  He  put  the  letter  his  wife  had  left 
in  his  coat  pocket,  because  he  had  a  vague  idea  it  might  be 
evidence.  He  might  show  it  to  somebody  and  maybe  it  would 
help. 

xoi 


It  was  snowing  when  Jan  left  the  plating  works  in  the 
morning  to  come  to  court.  He  arrived  at  the  City  Hall  and 
wandered  around,  confused  by  the  crowd  of  people  pouring 
in  and  out  of  the  elevators.  But  it  was  growing  late  and  he 
only  had  two  hours  off.  So  Jan  made  inquiries.  Where  was 
the  court  where  he  should  go? 

"Judge  Barasa  on  the  eighth  floor,"  said  the  starter.  Jan 
went  there. 

A  lot  of  people  were  in  the  court  room.  Jan  sat  down 
among  them  and  looked  like  them — blank,  uninterested,  as 
if  waiting  for  a  train  in  the  railroad  station. 

One  thing  worried  Jan.  The  two  hours  off.  If  they  didn't 
call  him  he'd  be  late  and  the  foreman  would  be  mad.  He 
might  lose  his  job,  and  jobs  were  hard  to  get.  It  took  five 
weeks  to  get  this  one.  It  would  take  longer  now. 

But  they  called  Jan  Pedlowski  and  he  came  forward  to 
where  the  judge  sat.  At  first  Jan  had  felt  confused  and  fright 
ened.  He  had  worried  about  coming  to  court  and  standing 
before  the  judge.  Now  it  seemed  all  right.  Everybody  was 
nice  and  businesslike.  A  lawyer  said: 

"There's  almost  two  months'  rent  due  now.  Eighteen 
dollars  for  the  November  rent  and  $27.50  for  December." 

"Can  you  pay  the  rent?"  the  judge  asked  of  Jan. 

Jan  looked  and  blinked  and  tried  to  think  of  something 
to  say.  He  could  only  think  of  "My  wife  Paula  ran  away 
last  night.  Here,  she  wrote  this  letter  left  me  on  the  table 
when  I  come  home  last  night." 

"I  see,"  said  the  judge.  "But  what  about  the  rent?  If 
I  give  you  until  January  1 0,  do  you  think  you  can  pay  it?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jan,  rubbing  his  eyes.  "I  got  job 
now,  but  they  going  to  lay  off  after  new  year.  If  I  have  job 
I  pay  it  all.  I  can  pay  $  1 0  now." 

"Have  you  got  it  with  you,"  asked  the  judge. 

102 


"Yes,"  said  Jan.  "I  was  going  to  buy  Christmas  present 
for  Paula,  but  she  ran  away." 

Jan  handed  over  the  $  1 0  and  listened  to  the  judge  explain 
that  he  would  be  allowed  to  stay  where  he  was  until  January 
10  and  have  till  then  to  pay  his  rent.  When  this  was  over 
he  walked  out,  putting  his  hat  on  too  soon,  so  that  the  bailiff 
cried:  "Hats  off  in  the  courtroom."  Jan  grabbed  his  hat  and 
grew  red. 

Now  he  had  almost  a  full  hour  and  a  half  before  going 
to  the  factory.  It  had  taken  less  time  than  he  thought.  Jan 
started  to  walk.  It  was  cold  and  the  streets  were  slippery. 
He  walked  along  with  his  hands  in  the  frayed  pockets  of  his 
overcoat  and  his  breath  congealing  over  his  walrus  mustache. 

His  eyes  were  set  and  his  face  serious.  Jan's  thoughts 
were  simple.  Rent — Paula — jobs.  Christmas,  perhaps,  too. 
But  he  walked  along  like  anybody  else  in  the  loop. 

Jan  wandered  as  far  as  Quincy  and  La  Salle  streets.  Here 
he  stopped  and  looked  around.  It  was  beginning  to  snow 
heavier  now.  He  stood  still  like  a  man  waiting.  And  having 
nothing  to  do  he  took  the  letter  his  wife  had  left  under  the 
soup  plate  and  read  it  again. 

When  Jan  had  folded  the  letter  up  and  started  to  walk 
once  more  his  eyes  suddenly  lighted  up.  He  turned  and  started 
to  run  and  as  he  ran  he  cried:  "Paula,  Paula!'*  Some  of  the 
crowd  moving  on  paused  and  looked  at  a  stocky  man  with  a 
heavy  mustache  running  across  the  street  and  shouting  a 
woman's  name. 

The  cabs  were  thick  at  the  moment  and  it  was  hard  run 
ning  across.  But  Jan  kept  on,  his  overcoat  flapping  behind  him 
and  his  short  legs  jumping  up  and  down  as  he  moved.  A 
young  woman  with  a  cheap  fur  around  her  neck  had  stopped. 
There  were  others  who  paused  to  watch  Jan.  But  this  young 
woman  was  one  of  the  few  who  didn't  smile. 

103 


She  waited  as  if  puzzled  for  a  moment  and  then  started 
to  lose  herself  in  the  crowd.  She  walked  swiftly  ahead,  her 
eyes  anxiously  on  the  corner.  And  in  the  meantime  Jan  came 
galumphing  toward  the  curbing  still  crying:  "Paula,  Paula!" 
At  the  curbing,  however,  Jan  came  to  a  full  stop.  His  toe 
had  caught  the  cement  and  he  shot  forward,  landing  on  his 
hands  and  chin. 

A  crowd  gathered  around  Jan  and  some  one  helped  him 
to  his  feet.  His  chin  was  bleeding  and  his  hands  were  scraped 
from  hitting  the  cold  pavement.  He  made  no  sign,  however, 
of  injury,  but  stood  blinking  in  the  direction  the  young  woman 
with  the  cheap  fur  had  gone. 

A  policeman  arrived  and  inquired  sympathetically  what 
was  wrong.  Jan  brushed  himself  mechanically  as  the  police 
man  spoke.  Then  he  answered:  "Nothing,  I  fell  down."  The 
policeman  went  away  and  Jan  turned  back  to  catch  a  Milwau 
kee  Avenue  street  car. 

He  stood  on  the  corner  waiting  and  fingering  his  bruised 
chin.  He  seemed  to  be  getting  impatient  as  the  car  failed  to 
appear.  Finally  he  thrust  his  hand  inside  his  pocket  and  drew 
out  the  letter  again.  He  held  it  without  reading  for  an  instant 
and  then  tore  it  up. 

When  the  car  came  Jan  was  still  tearing  up  the  letter, 
his  thick  fingers  trying  vainly  to  divide  it  into  tinier  bits. 


3fc$$ 

ll/IMll..          •    -  •!    •HllllllB  . 

"flHUIMH 


CORAL,  AMBER  AND  JADE 


There  are  no  gold  and  scarlet  lanterns  bobbing  like  fat 
little  oriental  Pierrots  over  this  street.  No  firecracker  colors 
daub  its  sad  walls.  Walk  the  whole  length  and  not  a  dragon 
or  a  thumbnail  balcony  or  a  pigtail  will  you  see. 

Instead,  a  very  efficient,  very  conservative  Chinatown 
and  a  colony  of  very  efficient  and  very  matter-of-fact  China 
men  who  have  gradually  taken  possession  of  a  small  district 
around  Twenty-second  Street  and  Wentworth  Avenue.  A 
rather  famous  district  in  its  way,  where  once  the  city's  tender 
loin  put  forth  its  red  shadows. 

But  now  as  you  walk,  the  night  stares  evilly  out  of  wooden 
ruins.  Stretches  of  sagging,  empty  buildings,  whose  windows 
and  doors  seem  to  have  been  chewed  away,  an  intimidating 
silence,  a  graveyard  of  crumbling  little  houses — these  remain. 
And  you  see  Venus,  grown  old  and  toothless,  snoozing  amid 
the  debris  of  another  day. 

Then  the  Chinamen  begin.  Lights  twinkle.  Clean- 
looking  interiors  and  carefully  washed  store  windows.  Roofs 
have  been  hammered  back  in  place,  stairways  nailed  together 
again.  The  sagging  walls  and  lopsided  cottages  have  taken  a 
new  lease  on  life.  Another  of  the  innumerable  little  business 
districts  that  dot  the  city  has  fought  its  way  into  evidence. 

There  are  few  oddities.  Through  the  glass  of  the  store 
fronts  you  see  curiously  immobile  groups,  men  seated  in  chairs, 
smoking  long  pipes  and  waiting  in  silence.  Strange  fruits, 
foods,  herbs,  cloths,  trinkets,  lie  on  the  orderly  shelves  around 
them.  The  floors  look  scrubbed  and  there  is  an  absence  of 
litter.  It  is  all  very  efficient  and  very  natural  except  for  the 
immobility  of  the  men  in  the  chairs  and  the  silence  that  seems 
to  have  descended  on  them. 

A  Chinese  silence.  And  if  you  linger  in  the  neighbor 
hood  you  begin  to  feel  that  this  is  more  Chinese  than  the 

1 06 


gaudy  dragons  and  the  firecracker  daubs  and  the  bobbing 
paper  lanterns  of  fiction. 

This  night  I  am  looking  for  Billy  Lee.  No.  2209  Went- 
worth  Avenue,  says  Mr.  Lee's  card.  We  are  to  talk  over  some 
matters,  one  of  which  has  already  been  made  public,  others 
of  which  may  never  be. 

He  sits  in  his  inner  office,  attired  like  a  very  efficient 
American  business  man,  does  Mr.  Lee.  We  say  hello  and 
start  the  talk.  In  the  rooms  outside  the  inner  office  are  a 
dozen  Chinese.  But  there  is  no  sound.  They  are  sitting  in 
chairs  or  standing  up.  All  smoking.  All  silent.  A  sense 
of  strange  preoccupation  lies  over  the  place.  Yet  one  feels 
that  the  twelve  silent  men  are  preoccupied  with  nothing  except, 
possibly,  the  fact  that  they  are  Chinese. 

Mr.  Lee  himself  is  none  too  garrulous.  We  have  been 
talking  for  several  minutes  when  he  becomes  totally  silent  and 
after  a  long  pause  hands  me  a  cablegram.  The  cablegram 
reads:  "Hongkong — Ying  Yan:  Bandits  captured  Foo  Wing 
and  wife.  Send  $5,000  immediately.  Signed:  Taichow." 

"I  just  received  this,*'  says  Mr.  Lee.  "Ying  Yan  is  my 
father.  Foo  Wing  is  my  brother.  His  American  name  is 
Andrew  Lee.  He  went  to  Hongkong  ten  months  ago  and 
was  married.  This  is  terrible.  I  am  worried  to  death." 

Mr.  Lee  appears  to  sink  into  a  studious  calm.  His  eyes 
regard  the  cablegram  stolidly.  He  remarks  at  length:  "Bad 
news.  This  is  very  bad  news/' 

From  outside  comes  a  sudden  singsong  of  Chinese.  One 
of  the  twelve  men  has  said  something.  He  finishes.  Silence 
resumes.  There  seems  to  be  no  answer.  Mr.  Lee  puts  the 
cablegram  back  in  his  pocket  and  some  one  knocks  on  the 
door. 

"Come  in,"  says  Mr.  Lee.  A  Chinese  youth  enters.  He 
carries  a  bundle. 

"Meet  Mr.  Tang,"  says  Billy  Lee.  We  shake  hands  and 

107 


Mr.  Tang  begins  talking  in  Chinese.  Mr.  Lee  listens,  nods 
his  head  and  then  holds  out  his  hand  for  the  bundle. 

'This  is  a  very  interesting  event,"  says  Mr.  Lee  in  Eng 
lish.  "Mr.  Tang  is  just  over  from  the  Orient.  He  comes  from 
north  of  China,  from  Wu  Chang,  where  the  revolution  started, 
you  know.  He  has  with  him  a  very  interesting  matter." 

Mr.  Lee  unwraps  the  bundle.  He  removes  a  long  neck 
lace  made  of  curiously  carved  wooden  beads,  large  balls  of 
jade  and  pendants  of  silk  and  semi-precious  stones. 

Next  he  removes  a  second  necklace  somewhat  longer  than 
the  first.  It  is  made  of  marvelously  matched  amber  beads, 
balls  of  jade  and  pendants  of  coral. 

"A  very  interesting  matter,"  says  Mr.  Lee.  "Mr.  Tang 
is  son  of  a  formerly  very  wealthy  and  high-born  mandarin  fam 
ily.  But  his  family  has  lost  everything  and  Mr.  Tang  is  here 
seeking  an  education  in  modern  business.  He  has  left  of 
his  family's  wealth  only  these  two  things  here.  They  are  neck 
laces  such  as  only  mandarins  could  wear  when  they  appeared 
before  the  emperor  in  court  in  the  old  days. 

"You  see  these  have  three  pendants,  so  they  show  the 
mandarin  was  a  gentleman  of  the  third  class  under  the  emperor. 
They  have  been  in  Mr.  Tang's  family's  possession  for  genera 
tions.  You  will  notice  this  one  of  carved  beads  is  made 
of  beads  which  are  formed  from  the  pits  of  the  Chinese  olive. 
There  are  two  hundred  beads  and  on  each  is  carved  some 
figure  or  scene  which  in  all  represent  the  history  of  China." 

Mr.  Lee  holds  the  two  necklaces  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Tang 
stands  by  silently.  His  eyes  gaze  at  the  beads. 

"Your  father  wore  them  at  court?"  inquires  Mr.  Lee  in 
the  manner  of  a  host. 

Mr.  Tang  nods  his  head  slowly  and  adds  a  word  in  Chi 
nese. 

"He  says  his  family  wore  them  for  generations,"  explains 
Mr.  Lee.  "Now  the  family  is  vanished  and  all  that  is  left  are 

1 08 


these  insignia  of  their  nobility.  And  Mr.  Tang  wishes  me  to 
dispose  of  them  for  him  so  he  may  have  money  to  go  to 
school." 

Mr.  Lee  and  Mr.  Tang  are  then  both  silent.  Mr.  Lee 
slips  one  of  the  necklaces  over  his  head.  It  hangs  down  over 
his  American  coat  and  American  silk  shirt  in  a  rather  incon 
gruous  way.  But  there  seems  to  be  nothing  incongruous  in 
the  matter  for  Lee  and  Tang.  Billy  Lee  with  the  necklace 
around  his  neck,  the  three  mandarin  pendants  against  his  belt, 
looks  at  Mr.  Tang  and  Mr.  Tang  bows  and  leaves. 

Our  matters  have  been  fully  discussed  and  I  follow  a  half- 
hour  later.  There  are  still  twelve  men  in  the  room.  They 
stand  and  sit  and  smoke.  None  speaks.  I  notice  in  the  group 
the  immobile  figure  of  Mr.  Tang.  He  is  smoking  an  American 
cigarette — one  of  the  twelve  silently  preoccupied  residents  of 
Chinatown  who  have  gathered  in  Billy  Lee's  place  to  wait 
for  something. 


MEDITATION  IN  E  MINOR 

WeH,  well,  well.  The  lady  pianist  will  now  oblige  with 
something  very  refined.  When  in  the  name  of  750,000  gods 
of  reason  will  I  ever  learn  enough  to  stay  at  home  and  go  to  bed 
instead  of  searching  kittenishly  for  diversion  in  neighborhood 
movie  and  vaudeville  houses? 

No.  Wrong.  The  lady  is  not  a  pianist.  She  is  merely 
an  accompanist.  She  is  going  to  accompany  something  on 
the  piano.  A  cornet,  probably.  Or  a  ukulele.  Parbhu,  what 
a  face!  Two  hundred  and  eighty-five  years  old,  if  a  day. 

Aha!  His  nobs.  A  fiddler.  "Silver  Threads  Among 
the  Gold,"  and  something  fancy  from  the  opera.  And  all 
dressed  up  in  his  wedding  suit.  The  white  tie  is  a  bit  soiled 
and  the  white  vest  longs  mutely  for  the  laundryman.  And  if 
he's  going  to  wear  a  dress  suit,  if  he  insists  upon  wearing  a 
dress  suit,  why  doesn't  he  press  his  pants? 

But  how  did  a  man  with  a  face  like  this  ever  happen  to 
think  he  could  fiddle?  An  English  nobleman.  Or  maybe 
a  Swedish  nobleman.  Hm!  A  very  interesting  face.  A  little 
bit  touched  with  flabbiness.  And  somewhat  soiled,  intangibly 
soiled.  Like  an  English  nobleman  or  a  Swedish  nobleman 
who  has  stayed  up  all  night  drinking. 

And  he  holds  his  fiddle  in  an  odd  way.  Like  what? 
Well,  like  a  fiddler.  Like  a  marvelous  fiddler.  It  hangs 
limply  from  his  hand  as  if  it  were  nonexistent.  Kreisler  holds 
his  fiddle  like  that.  A  close-cropped  blond  mustache  and  the 
beginnings  of  a  paunch.  Nevertheless  a  very  refined  gentle 
man,  a  baron  somewhat  the  worse  for  a  night  of  bourbon. 

The  idiotic  orchestra,  the  idiotic  orchestra!  Did  anybody 
ever  hear  such  an  idiotic  orchestra?  Three  violins,  one  'cello, 
one  cornet,  one  flute  and  a  drum  all  out  of  tune,  all  out  of 
time.  The  prelude.  And  his  nobs  grins.  Poor  fellow.  But 
who  taught  him  how  to  hold  a  fiddle  like  tKat? 

We're  off.  An  E  minor  chord  from  our  friend  at  the 
piano.  Hm,  something  classical.  Ho,  ho!  Viotti.  Well, 

no 


well,  here's  a  howdeedo.  His  nobs  is  going  to  play  the  con 
certo.  Good-by,  good  luck  and  God  bless  him.  if  I  was  in 
bed,  if  I  was  in  bed,  I  wouldn't  have  to  listen  to  a  refined 
gentleman  with  his  swell  pants  impressed  murdering  poor 
Viotti.  A  swell  gentleman  with  his  eyes  carefully  made  up.  I 
didn't  notice  his  eyes  before.  All  set,  Paganini.  Your  turn. 
Let's  go. 

Ah,  that  was  a  note!  Well,  well,  well,  his  nobs  can  play. 
Hm!  A  cadenza  in  double  stops!  And  the  £  minor  scale  in 
harmonics!  Listen  to  the  baron  in  the  dirty  white  vest.  The 
man's  a  violinist.  Observe — calisthenics  on  the  G  string  and 
in  the  second  position.  A  very  difficult  position  and  easily 
faked.  And  when  did  Heifetz  ever  take  a  run  like  that?  Up, 
down  and  the  fingers  hammering  like  thoroughbreds  on  a  fast 
track.  Pizzicato  with  the  left  hand  and  obbligato  glissando! 

Hoopla!  The  fellow's  showing  off!  And  it  isn't  a  Drdla 
souvenir  or  a  vaudeville  Brahms  arrangement.  But  twenty 
years  of  practice.  Yes,  sir,  there  are  twenty  years  and  eight 
hours  a  day,  every  day  for  twenty  years,  in  these  acrobatics. 
There  are  twenty  years,  twenty  years,  behind  this  technique. 
And  well-spent  years. 

But  tell  me,  Cyril,  for  whom  is  our  baron  showing  off — 
for  whom?  Our  baron  with  the  soiled  tie  and  the  made-up 
eyes,  fiddling  coldly,  elaborately  for  a  handful  of  annoyed 
flappers,  amused  shoe  clerks  and  bored  home  lovers  sitting 
stolidly  in  the  dark,  waiting  stolidly  and  defiantly  to  be 
diverted? 

Bravo!  Five  of  us  applaud.  No,  six.  A  gentleman  in 
an  upper  box  applauds  with  some  degree  of  violence.  And 
there  is  the  orchestra  leader — a  dark-skinned,  black-eyed, 
curly-headed  youth,  nodding  and  smiling. 

Next  on  the  program?  Ah,  a  ballad.  A  thing  the  caba 
ret  ladies  sing,  "Do  You  Think  of  Me?"  A  faint  smile  on  our 
baron's  face.  But  the  fiddle  leaps  into  position  as  if  for 
another  cold,  elaborate  attack.  It  takes  twenty  years,  twenty 

in 


well-spent  years  to  learn  to  hold  a  bow  like  that.  Firmly,  cas 
ually,  indifferently  as  one  holds  a  pencil  between  one's  fingers. 

Admission  33  cents,  including  war  tax.  But  this  is  worth 
— well,  it  is  what  the  novelists  call  an  illuminating  experience. 
This  gentleman  of  music  whose  fingers  have  for  twenty  years 
absorbed  the  souls  of  Beethoven  and  Sarasate,  Liszt  and 
Moussorgski,  this  aristocrat  of  the  catgut  is  posturing  sardon 
ically  before  the  three  bored  fates.  He  is  pouring  twenty 
years,  twenty  well-spent  years,  into  a  tawdry  little  ballad.  Ah, 
how  our  baron's  fiddle  sings  I  And  the  darkened  faces  in  front 
hum  to  themselves:  "When  you're  flirt-ing  with  another,  do 
you  ever  think — of — me." 

Yes,  my  tired-faced  baron,  there's  a  question.  Do  you? 
We,  out  front,  all  have  our  little  underworlds  in  which  we  live 
sometimes  while  music  plays  and  beautiful  things  come  to  our 
eyes.  And  yours?  This  tin-pan  alley  ballad  throbbing  liquidly 
from  the  strings  of  your  fiddle — "When  you're  flirt-ing  with 
another  do  you  ever  think — of — me?"  Of  the  twenty  years, 
the  twenty  well-spent  years?  Of  the  soul  that  your  fingers 
captured?  Of  the  dream  that  took  form  in  your  firm  wrist? 

And  now  the  chorus  once  more.  In  double  stops.  In 
harmonics.  With  arpeggios  thrown  in.  And  once  more,  largo. 
Sure  and  full.  Sobbing  organ  notes,  whimpering  grace  notes. 
Superb,  baron  I  And  done  with  a  half  smile  at  the  darkened 
faces  out  front.  The  tired  faces  that  blinked  stolidly  at  Viotti. 
A  smile  at  the  orchestra  leader  who  stands  with  his  mouth 
open  waiting  as  if  the  song  were  still  in  the  air. 

Applause.  All  of  us  this  time.  More  applause.  Say 
this  guy  can  fiddle,  he  can.  Come  on,  baron,  another  tune. 
The  tired  faces  yammer  for  another  ditty.  "Traumerei."  All 
right,  let  her  go,  Paganini.  And  after  that  the  "Missouri 
Waltz/' 

I  will  stay  for  the  next  show.  I  will  stay  for  the  three 
shows.  And  each  time  this  magnifico  will  come  out  and  make 

112 


music.  But  better  than  that.  I  will  go  back  stage  and  talk 
with  him.  I  will  ask  him:  "How  does  it  happen,  sir,  that  a 
man  who  can  fiddle  like  you,  a  man  who  could  play  a  duet 
with  Kreisler — how  does  it  happen  you're  fiddling  in  a  neigh 
borhood  movie  and  vaudeville  house?'* 

And  he  will  unfold  a  story.  Yes,  there's  a  story  there. 
Something  happened  to  this  nobleman  of  the  soiled  white 
vest  and  the  marvelous  fingers.  There  was  an  occurrence  in 
this  man's  life  which  would  make  a  good  climax  for  a  second 
act. 

No,  that  would  spoil  the  picture.  To  find  out,  to  learn 
the  clumsy  mechanism  behind  this  charming  spectacle  would 
take  away.  Better  like  this.  The  lady  at  the  piano.  Ah, 
indeed,  the  lady  at  the  piano,  a  very  elderly  lady  with  a  thin 
nose  and  hair  that  was  once  extremely  beautiful,  perhaps  she 
had  something  to  do  with  it?  The  orchestra  pounds  and 
scrapes  away.  And  the  movie  jumps  around  and  the  heroine 
weeps,  but  somebody  saves  her.  "Where  there  is  no  faith 
there  cannot  be  true  love,"  confesses  the  hero,  folding  her  in 
his  well-pressed  arms.  And  that's  that. 

Now  our  friend,  the  baron,  again.  No,  better  to  leave. 
He  has  left  his  smile  in  the  wings  this  time.  He  is  very  serious 
or  perhaps  very  tired.  Two  times  tonight  to  play.  Too  much 
——too  much. 

My  hat,  and  I  will  walk  out  on  his  nobs.  And,  anyway, 
Huneker  wrote  the  story  long  ago.  About  a  piano  player  in 
Coney  Island  that  he  called — what  was  it?  Oh,  yes,  "A  Chopin 
of  the  Gutter/* 


I 


TEN-CENT  WEDDING  RINGS 

A  gloomy  day  and  the  loop  streets  grimace  behind  a 
mist.  The  electric  signs  are  lighted.  The  buildings  open  like 
great  fans  in  the  half  dark. 

The  streets  invite  a  mood  of  melodrama.  Windows  glint 
evilly.  Doorways  grin  with  rows  of  electric  teeth.  This, 
donnerwelter!  is  the  Great  City  of  the  old-time  ten-twenty- 
thirty  thrillers.  The  devourer  of  innocence,  the  strumpet  of 
<stone. 

I  walk  along  humming  a  bar  of  villainous  music,  the 
"skeeter  scale"  that  the  orchestra  used  to  turn  turn  turn  taaaa- 
tum  in  the  old  Alhambra  as  the  two  dockwallopers  and  the 
leering  Chinaman  were  climbing  in  through  little  Mabel's  hall 
bedroom  window  to  abduct  her. 

Those  were  happy  days  for  the  drama,  when  a  scoundrel 
was  a  scoundrel  and  wore  a  silk  hat  to  prove  it,  and  a  hero 
was  a  two-fisted  man,  as  anybody  could  tell  by  a  glance  at  his 
marcelled  hair  and  his  open-at-the-throat  shirt. 

Turn  turn  turn  turn  taaaa-tum.  Pizzicato  pianissimo,  says 
the  direction  on  the  score.  So  we  are  all  set  for  a  melodrama. 
Here  is  the  Great  City  back-drop.  Here  are  the  grim-faced 
crowds  shuffling  by  under  the  jaundice  glare  of  electric  signs. 
And  Christmas  is  coming.  A  vague  gray  snow  trickles  out 
of  the  gloom. 

A  proper  time  for  melodrama.  All  we  need  is  a  plot. 
Come,  come  now — a  plot  alive  with  villains  and  weeping 
maidens.  Halto!  The  window  of  the  5-  and  10-cent  store! 
a  tumble  of  gewgaws  and  candies  and  kitchen  utensils.  Christ 
mas  tree  tinsel  and  salted  peanuts,  jazz  music  and  mittens. 

The  curtain  is  up.  Egad,  what  a  masterly  scene.  A 
kitchen  Coney  Island.  A  puzzle  picture  of  isles,  signs,  smells, 
noises.  Cinderella  wandering  wistfully  in  the  glass-bead  sec 
tion  looking  for  a  fairy  godmother. 

A  clinking  obbligato  by  the  cash  registers.  The  poor  are 
buying  gifts.  This  garish  froth  of  merchandise  is  the  back- 

"5 


ground  of  their  luxuries.  This  noisy  puzzle-picture  store  is  their 
horn  of  plenty.  A  sad  thought  and  we'll  dismiss  it.  What  we 
want  is  plot. 

Perhaps  the  jazz-song  booster  singing  out  of  the  side 
of  his  mouth  with  tired  eyes  leering  at  the  crowd  of  girls: 
"Won't  You  Let  Me  Love  You  If  I  Promise  to  Be  Good?" 
And  "Love  Me,  Turtle  Dove."  And  "Lovin*  Looie."  And 
"The  Lovin*  Blues." 

All  lovin*.  Jazz  songs,  ballads,  sad,  silly,  boobish  nut 
songs — all  about  love  me — love  me.  All  about  stars  and 
kisses,  moonlight  and  "she  took  my  man  away."  There  are 
telephones  all  over  the  walls  and  the  song  booster's  voice  pops 
out  over  the  salted-peanut  section,  over  the  safety-pin  and 
brassware  section.  A  tinny,  nasal  voice  with  a  whine  and  a 
hoarseness  almost  hiding  the  words. 

The  cash  registers  clink,  clink.  "Are  you  waited  on, 
madam?  Five  cents  a  package,  madam."  The  crowds,  tired 
eyed,  shabbily  dressed,  bundle-laden,  young,  old — the  crowds 
shuffle  up  and  down,  staring  at  gewgaws,  and  the  love-me 
love  songs  follow  them  around.  Follow  them  to  the  loose- 
bead  counter  where  Madge  with  her  Japanese  puffs  of  hair, 
her  wad  of  gum  and  her  black  shirtwaist  that  she  keeps  straight 
ening  out  continually  by  drawing  up  her  bosom  and  pressing 
down  on  her  hips  with  her  hands — where  Madge  holds  forth. 

Turn  turn  turn  turn  taaaa-tum — halto!  Here  is  our  plot. 
Outside  the  pizzicato  of  the  crowds,  the  Great  City,  shining, 
dragon-eyed,  through  the  mist — the  City  That  Has  No  Heart. 
And  here  under  our  nose,  twinkling  up  at  our  eyes,  a  huge 
tray  full  of  1 0-cent  wedding  rings.  End  of  Act  One. 

Act  Two,  now — Madge,  the  sharp-tongued,  weary-eyed 
young  woman  behind  the  counter.  Love-me  love  songs  in  her 
ear  and  people  unraveling,  faces  unraveling  before  her.  Who 
buys  these  wedding  rings,  Madge?  And  did  you  ever  notice 
anything  odd  about  your  customers?  And  why  do  you  sup 
pose  they  buy  ten-cent  wedding  rings,  Madge? 

116 


"Just  a  moment,"  says  Madge.  "What  is  it,  miss?  A 
ring?  What  kind?  Oh,  yes.  Ten  cents.  Gold  or  platinum 
just  the  same.  Yes." 

Two  giggling  girls  move  off.  And  Madge,  chewing  gently 
on  her  wad  of  gum  and  smoothing  her  huge  hair  puffs  out 
with  the  coyly  stiffened  palms  of  her  hands,  talks. 

"Sure,  I  get  you.  About  the  wedding  rings.  Sure,  that's 
easy.  We  sell  about  twenty  or  thirty  of  them  every  day.  Oh, 
mostly  to  kids — girls  and  boys.  Sometimes  an  old  Johnny 
comes  in  with  a  moth-eaten  fur  collar  and  blows  a  dime 
for  a  wedding  ring.  But  mostly  girls. 

"I  sometimes  take  a  second  look  at  them.  They  usually 
giggle  when  they  ask  for  the  ring.  And  they  usually  pretend 
it's  for  somebody  as  a  joke  they're  buying  it.  Or  sometimes 
they  walk  around  the  counter  for  a  half  hour  and  get  me  nerv 
ous  as  a  cat.  'Cause  I  know  what  they  want  and  they  can't 
get  their  gall  up  to  come  and  ask  for  it.  But  finally  they  make 
the  break  and  come  up  and  pick  out  a  ring  without  saying  a 
word  and  hand  over  ten  cents. 

"There  was  one  girl  no  more  than  sixteen  just  this  morn 
ing.  She  come  here  all  full  of  pep  and  kidded  about  things 
and  said  wasn't  them  platinum  wedding  rings  just  too  grand 
for  words,  and  so  on.  Then  she  said  she  wanted  a  half-dozen 
of  them,  and  was  there  a  discount  when  bought  in  such  quan 
tity?  I  started  wrapping  them  up  when  I  looked  at  her  and 
she  was  crying.  And  she  dropped  her  sixty  cents  on  the 
counter  and  said:  'Never  mind,  never  mind.  I  don't  want 
them.  I  can't  wear  them.  They'll  only  make  it  worse.*  ' 

A  middle-aged-looking  man  interrupts.  "What  is  it 
sir?"  asks  Madge.  "Anything  in  rings?  What  kind?"  Oh, 
just  plain  rings,"  says  the  man  with  a  great  show  of  indif 
ference,  while  his  eyes  ferret  among  the  trinkets  on  the  counter. 
And  then,  very  calmly:  "Oh,  these  will  do,  I  guess."  Two 
wedding  rings,  and  he  spent  twenty  cents.  Madge  follows 
him  with  her  eyes.  "That's  it,"  she  whispers,  "usually  the  men 

117 


buy  two.  One  for  themselves  and  one  for  the  girl.  Or  if  it's 
the  girl  that's  buying  them  it's  one  for  herself  and  one  for  her 
girl  chum  who's  going  with  her  and  the  two  fellas  on  the  party. 
Say,  take  it  from  me,  these  rings  don't  ever  hear  no  wedding 
marches." 

Back  into  the  gloomy  street  again.  A  plot  in  our  head, 
but  who's  the  villain  and  who's  the  heroine  and  the  hero? 
An  easy  answer  to  that.  The  crowd  here — sad  faced,  tired- 
walking,  bundle-laden.  The  crowd  continually  dissolving  amid 
street  cars  and  autos  is  the  villain. 

A  crowd  of  shoppers  buying  slippers  for  uncle  and  shawls 
for  mother  and  mufflers  for  brother  and  some  bars  of  soap 
for  the  bathroom.  Buying  everything  and  anything  that  fill 
the  fan-shaped  buildings  with  their  glinting  windows.  Buying 
carpet  sweepers  and  window  curtains  and  linoleum. 

Pizzicato,  pianissimo,  professor — little-girl  gigglers  and 
hard-faced  dock  wallopers  and  slick-haired  lounge  lizards  and 
broken-hearted  ones — twenty  a  day  they  sidle  up  to  Madge's 
counter,  where  the  love  me,  love  me  songs  razz  the  heavy 
air,  and  shoot  a  dime  for  a  wedding  ring. 


f 


WHERE  THE  "BLUES"  SOUND 


' 


"That  St.  Louis   woman 

Wid  her  diahmond  rings, 
Pulls  mah  man  'round 

By  her  apron  strings — " 

A  voice  screeches  above  the  boom  and  hurrah  of  the 
black  and  white  35th  Street  cabaret.  The  round  tables  rock. 
Waiters  careen.  Balanced  trays  float  at  crazy  angles  through 
the  tobacco  smoke.  Hats  flash.  Firecracker  voices  explode. 
A  guffaw  dances  across  a  smear  of  faces.  Congo  gleams,  col 
lege  boy  pallors,  the  smiles  of  black  and  white  men  and  women 
interlace.  A  spotlight  shoots  its  long  hypotenuse  upon  the 
floor.  In  its  drifting  oval  the  entertainer,  her  shoulders  back, 
her  elbows  out,  her  fists  clenched  and  her  body  twisting  into 
slow  patterns,  bawls  in  a  terrifying  soprano — 

"If  it  waren't  foh  her  powdah 

And  her  stoke  bought  hair, 
The  man  Ah  love 

Would  not  have  gone  nowhere — " 

•    •*, 

Listen  for  the  tom-tom  behind  the  hurrah.  Watch  for 
the  torches  of  Kypris  and  Corinth  behind  the  glare  of  the 
tungstens.  This  is  the  immemorial  bacchanal  lurching  through 
the  kaleidoscope  of  the  centuries.  Pan  with  a  bootlegger's 
grin  and  a  checked  suit.  Dionysius  with  a  saxophone  to  his 
lips.  And  the  dance  of  Paphos  called  now  the  shimmie. 

Listen  and  watch  and  through  the  tumult,  rising  like  a 
strange  incense  from  the  smear  of  bodies,  tables  and  waiters, 
will  come  the  curious  thing  that  is  never  contained  in  the 
vice  reports.  The  gleam  of  the  devil  himself — the  echo  of 
some  mystic  cymbal  note. 

Later  the  music  will  let  out  a  tinny  blaze  of  sound.  Men 
and  women  will  press  together  and  a  pack  of  bodies  will  sway 
on  the  dance  floor.  The  tungstens  will  go  out  and  the  spot 
light  will  throw  colors — green,  purple,  lavender,  blue,  violet— 


. 

• 


119 


and  as  the  scene  grows  darker  and  the  colors  revolve  a  howl 
will  fill  the  place.  But  on  the  dance  floor  a  silence  will  fasten 
itself  over  the  swaying  bodies  and  there  will  be  only  the  sound 
of  feet  pushing.  The  silence  of  a  ritual — faces  stiffened,  eyes 
rolling — a  rigid  embrace  of  men  and  women  creeping  cun 
ningly  among  the  revolving  colors  and  the  whiplike  rhythms 
of  the  jazz  band. 

"Lost  souls,"  says  the  vice  reports,  and  the  vice  reports 
speak  with  a  calm  and  knowing  voice.  Women  whose  bodies 
and  faces  are  like  shells  of  evil;  vicious  seeming  men  with  a 
rasp  in  their  laughter.  These  are  among  those  present. 
Aphrodite  is  a  blousy  wench  in  the  35th  and  State  streets 
neighborhood.  And  her  votaries,  although  they  offer  an 
impressive  ensemble,  are  a  sorry  lot  taken  face  by  face. 

Izzy,  who  is  an  old  timer,  sits  at  a  table  and  takes  it  in. 
Izzy's  eyes  and  ears  have  learned  to  pick  details  in  a  bedlam. 
He  can  talk  softly  and  listen  easily  through  the  height  of  the 
cabaret  racket.  The  scene  hits  Izzy  as  water  hits  a  duck's 
back.^ 

"Well,"  he  says,  "it's  a  good  night  tonight.  The  slum- 
rners  are  out  in  full  force  rubberin'  at  each  other.  Well,  this 
is  a  funny  world,  take  it  from  me.  Me?  Huh,  I  come  here 
every  night  or  so  to  have  a  little  drink  and  look  *em  over 
for  a  while.  Ain't  nothing  to  see  but  a  lot  o'  molls  and  a  lot 
of  sucker  guys.  Them?  Say,  they  never  learn  no  better. 
Tough  guys  ain't  no  different  from  soft  guys,  see?  They  all 
fall  for  the  dames  just  as  hard  and  just  as  worse.  There's 
many  a  good  guy  in  this  place  that's  been  gave  a  tumble  by 
them,  see? 

"There,  I  got  an  idee  he'd  blow  in  tonight.  He  ain't 
missed  a  Saturday  night  for  months.  And  he  usu'lly  makes 
it  four  or  five  times  a  week.  That  guy  over  there  wit'  the 
mop  o'  gray  hair.  Yeah,  that's  him.  Well,  he's  the  professor. 
I  spotted  him  in  the  district  a  year  or  so  ago.  He  had  a  dame 
wit*  him  who  I  know,  see?  A  terrible  broad.  Say,  maybe 

120 


you've  heard  of  him.  His  name  is  Weintraub.  I  picked  it 
up  from  the  dame  he's  goin'  wit',  see?  He  ought  to  be  in  your 
line.  He  was  a  reg'lar  music  professor  before  he  come  down. 
The  leader  of  a  swell  orchestra  somewhere  in  the  east  or  in 
Europe,  I  guess.  The  dame  don't  know  for  sure,  but  she 
told  me  he  was  some  baby  on  music. 

"Well,  that's  him  there,  see?  He  comes  in  like  this  and 
sits  down  near  the  band.  Look  at  him.  Do  you  make  him? 
The  way  he's  movin'  his  hands?  See,  he's  leadin'  the  band. 
Sure"  — Izzy  laughed  mirthlessly — "that's  what  the  guy's 
doin'.  Nuts,  see?  DaflFy.  He  comes  in  here  like  that  and  I 
always  watch  him.  He  sits  still  and  when  the  music  starts  up 
he  begins  wit'  his  hands.  Ain't  he  the  berries? 

"Now  keep  your  eye  on  him.  You'll  see  somethin*  pretty 
quick.  He's  alone  tonight.  I  guess  the  dame  has  shook  him 
for  the  evenin'.  Look,  he's  still  conductin*.  Ain't  he  rich? 
But  he's  got  a  good  face,  you  might  say.  Class,  eh?  You'd 
know  he  was  a  musician. 

"I  tell  you  I  begin  to  watch  him  the  first  time  I  saw  him. 
And  from  the  beginnin*  he's  always  conductin'  when  the  band 
starts  in.  The  dame  is  usu'lly  wit'  him  and  she  don't  like  it. 
She  tries  to  stop  him,  but  he  don't  see  her  for  sour  apples. 
He  keeps  right  on  like  now,  beatin'  time  wit'  his  hands.  Look, 
the  poor  nut's  growin'  excited.  Daffy.  Can  you  beat  it? 
There  he  goes.  See?  That's  on  account  of  Jerry.  Jerry's 
the  black  one  on  the  end  wit*  the  saxophone.  Ha,  Jerry  always 
does  it. 

"I  told  Jerry  about  this  guy  and  Jerry  tried  it  on  him  the 
first  night.  He  pulled  a  sour  one,  you  know,  blew  a  mean  one 
through  the  horn  and  his  nobs  nearly  fell  out  of  his  seat.  Like 
now.  See,  he's  through.  He  won't  conduct  the  band  any  more 
tonight  He's  sore.  No  sir,  he  won't  conduct  such  a  lot  of 
no-good  boilermakers  like  Jerry.  Can  you  beat  it?'* 

Izzy's  eyes  follow  a  stoop-shouldered  gray-haired  man 
from  one  of  the  tables.  A  thin-faced  man  with  bloodshot  eyes. 

121 


He  walks  as  if  he  were  half  asleep.  The  crowd  swallows  him 
and  Izzy  laughs  again  without  mirth. 

"He's  done  for  the  night.  That's  low  down  of  Jerry. 
But  Jerry  says  it  gets  his  goat  to  see  this  daffy  guy  comin*  in 
here  night  after  night  and  leadin*  the  band  from  the  table. 
So  the  smoke  blows  that  sour  note  every  time  his  nobs  gets 
started  on  his  conductin*  and  it  always  knocks  his  nobs  for  a 
gool.  He  never  stays  another  minute,  but  lights  out  right 
away. 

"Look,  there's  his  dame.  The  one  wit*  the  green  hat, 
sittin*  wit'  the  guy  with  the  cheaters  over  there.  Yeah,  that's 
her.  I  don't  know  why  she  ain't  wit*  him  tonight  Prob'ly 
a  lovers*  quarrel.**  And  Izzy  grinned.  "She's  a  tough  one, 
take  it  from  me.  I  don't  know  how  she  hooked  the  professor, 
but  she  did.  She  used  to  be  swelled  up  about  him.  And 
once  she  got  him  a  job  in  Buxbaum's  old  place,  she  told  me, 
to  work  in  the  orchestra.  But  his  nobs  kicked.  Said  he'd 
cut  his  throat  before  playin*  in  a  roughneck  orchestra  and  who 
did  she  think  he  was  to  do  such  a  thing?  He  says  to  her:  Tm 
Weintraub — Weintraub,  d'ye  understand?*  And  he  hauls  off 
and  wallops  her  one  and  she  guve  up  tryin*  to  get  him  a  job. 
It  makes  her  sore  to  watch  him  sittin'  around  like  tonight  and 
conductin*  the  orchestra.  She  says  it  ain*t  because  he's  daffy, 
but  on  account  of  his  bein*  stuck  up.'* 

The  woman  with  the  green  hat  had  left  her  table.  Izzy's 
shrewd  eyes  picked  her  out  again — this  time  standing  against 
a  far  wall  talking  to  the  professor,  and  the  professor  was  rub 
bing  his  forehead  and  saying  "No,  no,'*  with  his  hands. 

And  now  the  entertainer  was  singing  again: 

"Got  de  St.  Louis  Blues,  jes*  as  blue  as  Ah  can  be, 

Dat  man  has  a  heart  like  a  rock  ca-ast  in  de  sea, 

Or  else  he  would  not  have  gone  so  far  away  from  me." 


VAGABONDIA 

Here  they  come.  Five  merry  travelers  in  a  snorting,  dust- 
caked  automobile.  Wanderers,  egad !  Bowling  rakishly  across 
the  country.  Dusters  and  goggles  and  sunburn.  Prairie  nights 
have  sung  to  them.  Little  towns  have  grinned  at  them.  Moun 
tains,  valleys,  forests  and  stars  have  danced  across  their 
windshield. 

The  newspaper  man  stood  watching  them  haul  up  to 
the  Adams  Street  curb.  His  heart  was  tired  of  tall  buildings 
and  the  endless  grimace  of  windows.  Here  was  a  chariot 
out  of  another  world.  Motor  vagabonds.  Scooting  into  a 
city  with  a  swagger  to  their  dust-caked  wheels.  And  scooting 
out  again. 

The  newspaper  man  thought,  "The  world  isn't  buried 
yet.  There's  still  a  restlessness  left.  Things  change  from 
triremes  to  motor  boats,  from  Rosinante  to  automobiles.  But 
adventure  merely  mounts  a  new  seat  and  goes  on.  Dick  Hovey 
sang  it  once: 

1  am  fevered  with  the  sunset, 

1  am  fretful  with  the  bay. 
For    the   wander    thirst   is    on    me 

And  my  soul  is  in  Cathay. 

The  five  merry  travelers  crawled  out  and  stretched  them 
selves.  They  doffed  their  goggles  and  slipped  of?  their  linen 
dusters  and  changed  forthwith  from  a  group  of  flying  gnomes 
into  five  tired-looking  citizens  of  California.  Two  middle 
aged  women.  Two  middle-aged  men  and  a  son. 

One  of  the  men  said,  "Well,  we'll  lay  up  here  for  awhile, 
I  got  a  blister  on  my  hand  from  the  wheel." 

One  of  the  women  answered,  "I  must  buy  some  hairpins. 
Martin." 

The  newspaper  man  said  to  himself,  "What  ho!  I'll  give 
them  a  ring.  Why  not?  A  story  of  the  modern  wanderlust. 

1*3 


'•      ^ 


o 


Anyway,  they're  not  averse  to  publicity  seeing  they've  got  two 
'coast  to  coast'  pennants  on  the  back  of  their  machine.  What 
they've  seen.  Why  they've  journeyed.  A  tirade  against  the 
monotony  of  business.  And  Til  stick  in  one  of  Hovey's  stanzas, 
the  one  that  goes: 

There's  a  schooner  in  the  offing 
With  her  topsails  shot  with  fire. 

And  my  heart  has  gone  aboard  her 
For  the  Islands  of  Desire. 

"You  can  say,*'  said  the  spokesman  of  the  wanderers, 
"that  this  is  Martin  S.  Stevers  and  party.  I  am  Mr.  Stevers 
of  the  Stevers  Linseed  Oil  Company  in  San  Francisco.  Here's 
my  card." 

"Thanks,**   said  the  newspaper  man,   taking  the  card. 

"And  now,*'  spake  on  the  spokesman  of  the  wanderers, 
"what  can  I  do  for  you?** 

Newspaper  men  are  perhaps  the  only  creatures  who  as 
a  type  never  learn  how  to  ask  questions.  An  embarrassment 
caused  by  the  stupidity  of  the  gabby  great  whom  they  inter 
rogate  daily  puts  a  crimp  into  their  tongues.  Their  questions 
wince  in  anticipation  of  the  banalities  they  are  doomed  to  elicit 
Their  curiosity  collapses  under  the  shadow  of  the  inevitable, 
impending  bromide. 

Thus  the  newspaper  man,  wearily  certain  that  regardless 
of  what  he  asks  or  how  he  asks  it,  he  will  hear  for  answers  only 
the  clumsy  asininities  behind  which  the  personalities,  leaders 
and  sacred  white  cows  pompously  attitudinize,  gets  so  that  he 
mumbles  a  bit  incoherently. 

But  here  was  a  different  case.  Here  were  merry  trav 
elers  with  memories  of  wind-swept  valleys  and  star-capped 
mountains  to  chatter  on.  So  the  newspaper  man  unearthed  his 
vocabulary,  tilted  his  hat  a  trifle  and  smiled  invitingly. 

"Well,**  said  he  to  the  spokesman  of  the  wanderers, 
'The  kind  of  story  I'd  like  to  get  would  be  a  story  about  five 

124 


people  wandering  across  the  country.  You  know.  Hills, 
sunsets,  trees  and  how  those  things  drive  away  the  monotony 
that  fills  up  the  hearts  of  city  folk.  What  you  enjoyed  on  the 
trip  and  the  advantages  of  a  rover  over  a  swivel-chair  statis 
tician." 

An  eloquence  was  beginning  to  skip  around  on  the  news 
paper  man's  tongue.  His  heart,  weary  of  tall  buildings  and 
the  endless  grimace  of  city  windows,  began  to  warm  under 
the  visions  his  phrases  aroused. 

Then  he  paused.  One  of  the  women  had  interrupted. 
"Go  on  Martin,  you  can  tell  him  all  that.  And  don't  forget 
about  the  lovely  hotel  breakfast  room  in  Des  Moines." 

Martin,  however,  hesitated.  He  was  a  heavy-set,  large- 
faced  man  with  expansive  features  almost  devoid  of  expres 
sion.  Suddenly  his  face  lighted  up.  His  hands  jumped 
together  and  he  rubbed  their  palms  enthusiastically. 

"I  see,"  he  said  with  profundity.     "I  see." 

"Yes,"  breathed  the  newspaper  man. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Stevers,  "the  first  thing  I'd  like  to  tell 
you,  young  man,  is  about  the  car.  You  won't  believe  this, 
but  we've  been  making  twenty  miles  on  a  gallon,  that  is,  aver 
aging  twenty  miles  on  each  and  every  gallon,  sir,  since  we 
left  San  Francisco.  Pretty  good,  eh?" 

On  a  piece  of  scratch  paper  the  newspaper  man  obe 
diently  wrote,  "twenty  miles,  gallon." 

"And  then,"  went  on  the  spokesman  for  the  wanderers, 
"Our  speed,  eh?  You'd  like  to  know  that?  Well,  without 
stretching  the  thing  at  all,  and  you  can  verify  it  from  any  of 
my  party,  we've  averaged  twenty-six  miles  an  hour  all  the 
time  out.  I  tell  you  the  old  boat  had  to  travel  some  to  do 
that." 

"'Twenty-six  miles,"  scribbled  the  newspaper  man,  adding 
after  it,  "The  man's  an  idiot." 

Mr.  Stevers,  unmindful,  loosened  up.  The  price  of 
gasoline.  The  price  of  breakfasts.  The  condition  of  the 

125 


roads.  How  long  a  stretch  they  had  been  able  to  do  without 
a  halt.  How  many  hours  a  day  he  himself  had  stuck  at  the 
wheel.  When  he  had  finished  the  newspaper  man  bowed 
and  walked  abruptly  away. 

The  newspaper  man's  thoughts  form  a  conclusion. 

"It's  true,  then,"  he  thought,  "the  world's  becoming  as 
stupid  as  it  looks.  People  are  drying  up  inside  with  facts, 
figures,  dollar  signs.  This  man  and  his  party  would  have  got 
as  much  out  of  their  cross-country  trip  if  they'd  all  been  blind 
folded  and  shot  through  a  tunnel  two  thousand  feet  under  the 
ground.  Man  is  like  an  audience  and  he  has  walked  out  on 
mystery  and  adventure.  The  show  kind  of  tired  him.  And 
got  his  goat.  It  would  have  been  a  good  yarn  otherwise,  the 
motor  vagabonds.  I'd  have  ended  with  Hovey's  verse: 

I  must  forth  again   tomorrow, 

With  the  sunset  I  must  be 
Hull  down  on  the  trail  of  rapture 

In  the  wonder  of  the  sea. 

Mumbling  the  lines  to  himself,  the  newspaper  man  strode 
on  through  the  crowded  loop  with  a  sudden  swagger  in  hit 
eyes. 


NIRVANA 

The  newspaper  man  felt  a  bit  pensive.  He  sat  in  his 
bedroom  frowning  at  his  typewriter.  About  eight  years  ago 
he  had  decided  to  write  a  novel.  Not  that  he  had  anything 
particular  in  his  mind  to  write  about.  But  the  city  was  such 
a  razzle-dazzle  of  dreams,  tragedies,  fantasies;  such  a  crazy 
monotone  of  streets  and  windows  that  it  filled  the  newspaper 
man's  thought  from  day  to  day  with  an  irritating  blur. 

And  for  eight  years  or  so  the  newspaper  man  had  been 
fumbling  around  trying  to  get  it  down  on  paper.  But  no  novel 
had  grown  out  of  the  blur  in  his  head. 

The  newspaper  man  put  on  his  last  year's  straw  hat  and 
went  into  the  street,  taking  his  pensiveness  with  him.  Warm. 
Rows  of  arc  lights.  A  shifting  crowd.  There  are  some  streets 
that  draw  aimless  feet.  The  blazing  store  fronts,  clothes  shops, 
candy  shops,  drug-stores,  Victrola  shops,  movie  theatres  invite 
with  the  promise  of  a  saturnalia  in  suspense. 

At  Wilson  Avenue  and  Sheridan  Road  the  newspaper 
man  paused.  Here  the  loneliness  he  had  felt  in  his  bedroom 
seemed  to  grow  more  acute.  Not  only  his  own  aimlessness, 
but  the  aimlessness  of  the  staring,  smiling  crowd  afflicted  him. 

Then  out  of  the  babble  of  faces  he  heard  his  name  called. 
A  rouged  young  flapper,  high  heeled,  short  skirted  and  a  jaunty 
green  hat.  One  of  the  impudent  little  swaggering  boulevard 
promenaders  who  talk  like  simpletons  and  dance  like  Salomes, 
who  laugh  like  parrots  and  ogle  like  Pierettes.  The  birdlike 
strut  of  her  silkened  legs,  the  brazen  lure  of  her  stenciled  child 
face,  the  lithe  grimace  of  her  adolescent  body  under  the  stiff 
coloring  of  her  clothes  were  a  part  of  the  blur  in  the  newspaper 
man's  mind. 

She  was  one  of  the  things  he  fumbled  for  on  the  type 
writer — one  of  the  city  products  born  of  the  tinpan  bacchanal 
of  the  cabarets.  A  sort  of  frontispiece  for  an  Irving  Berlin 
ballad.  The  caricature  of  savagery  that  danced  to  the  cari- 

127 


cature  of  music  from  the  jazz  bands.  The  newspaper  man 
smiled.  Looking  at  her  he  understood  her.  But  she  would 
not  fit  into  the  typewritten  phrases. 

"Wilson  Avenue,"  he  thought,  as  he  walked  beside  her 
chatter.  "The  wise,  brazen  little  virgins  who  shimmy  and 
toddle,  but  never  pay  the  fiddler.  She's  it.  Selling  her  ankles 
for  a  glass  of  pop  and  her  eyes  for  a  fox  trot.  Unhuman  little 
piece.  A  cross  between  a  macaw  and  a  marionette/* 

Thus,  the  newspaper  man  thinking  and  the  flapper  flap 
ping,  they  came  together  to  a  cabaret  in  the  neighborhood. 
The  orchestra  filled  the  place  with  confetti  of  sound.  Laugh 
ter,  shouts,  a  leap  of  voices,  blazing  lights,  perspiring  waiters, 
faces  and  hats  thrusting  vivid  stencils  through  the  uncoiling 
tinsel  of  tobacco  smoke. 

On  the  dance  floor  bodies  hugging,  toddling,  shimmying; 
faces  fastened  together ;  eyes  glassy  with  incongruous  ecstasies. 

The  newspaper  man  ordered  two  drinks  of  moonshine 
and  let  the  scene  blur  before  him  like  a  colored  picture  puzzle 
out  of  focus.  Above  the  music  he  heard  the  childishly  strident 
voice  of  the  flapper: 

"Where  you  been  hiding  yourself?  I  thought  you  and 
I  were  cookies.  Well,  that's  the  way  with  you  Johns.  But 
there's  enough  to  go  around,  you  can  bet.  Say  boy!  I  met 
the  classiest  John  the  other  evening  in  front  of  the  Hopper. 
Did  he  have  class,  boy!  You  know  there  are  some  of  these 
fancy  Johns  who  look  like  they  were  the  class.  But  are  they? 
Ask  me.  Nix.  And  don't  I  give  them  the  berries,  quick? 
Say,  I  don't  let  any  John  get  moldy  on  me.  Soon  as  I  see 
they're  heading  for  a  dumb  time  I  say  'razzberry.*  And  off 
your  little  sugar  toddles." 

"How  old  are  you?"  inquired  the  newspaper  man  ab 
stractedly. 

"Eighteen,  nosey.  Why  the  insult?  I  got  a  new  job 
yesterday  with  the  telephone  company.  That  makes  my  sixth 
job  this  year.  Tell  me  that  ain't  going  good?  One  of  the 

128 


Johns  I  met  in  front  of  the  Edgewater  steered  me  to  it.  He 
turned  out  kind  of  moldy,  and  say!  he  was  dumb.  But  I 
played  along  and  got  the  job. 

"Say,  I  bet  you  never  noticed  my  swell  kicks/*  The 
flapper  thrust  forth  her  legs  and  twirled  her  feet.  "Classy, 
eh?  They  go  with  the  lid  pretty  nice.  Say,  you're  kind  of 
dumb  yourself.  You've  got  moldy  since  I  saw  you  last." 

"How'd  you  remember  my  name?"  inquired  the  news 
paper  man. 

"Oh,  there  are  some  Johns  who  tip  over  the  oil  can  right 
from  the  start.  And  you  never  forget  them.  Nobody  could 
forget  you,  handsome.  Never  no  more,  never.  What  do  you 
say  to  another  shot  of  hootch?  The  stuff's  getting  rottener 
and  rottener,  don't  you  think?  Come  on,  swallow.  Here's 
how.  Oh,  ain't  we  got  fun!" 

The  orchestra  paused.  It  resumed.  The  crowd  thick 
ened.  Shouts,  laughter,  swaying  bodies.  A  tinkle  of  glass 
ware,  snort  of  trombones,  whang  of  banjos.  The  newspaper 
man  looked  on  and  listened  through  a  Him. 

The  brazen  patter  of  his  young  friend  rippled  on.  A 
growing  gamin  coarseness  in  her  talk  with  a  nervous,  restless 
twitter  underneath.  Her  dark  child  eyes,  perverse  under  their 
touch  of  black  paint,  swung  eagerly  through  the  crowd.  Her 
talk  of  Johns,  of  dumb  times  and  moldy  times,  of  classy  times 
and  classy  memories  varied  only  slightly.  She  liked  dancing 
and  amusement  parks.  Automobile  riding  not  so  good.  And 
besides  you  had  to  be  careful.  There  were  some  Johns  who 
thought  it  cute  to  play  caveman.  Yes,  she'd  had  a  lot  of  close 
times,  but  they  wouldn't  get  her.  Never,  no,  never  no  more. 
Anyway,  not  while  there  was  music  and  dancing  and  a  whoop- 
de-da-da  in  the  amusement  parks. 

The  newspaper  man,  listening,  thought,  "An  infant  gone 
mad  with  her  dolls.  Or  no,  vice  has  lost  its  humanness. 

129 


She's  the  symbol  of  new  sin — the  unhuman,  passionless  whirli 
gig  of  baby  girls  and  baby  boys  through  the  cabarets." 

They  came  back  from  a  dance  and  continued  to  sit.  The 
din  was  still  mounting.  Entertainers  fighting  against  the  racket. 
Music  fighting  against  the  racket.  Bored  men  and  women 
finally  achieving  a  bedlam  and  forgetting  themselves  in  the 
artifice  of  confusion. 

The  newspaper  man  looking  at  his  young  friend  saw  her 
taking  it  in.  There  was  something  he  had  been  trying  to 
fathom  about  her  during  her  breathless  chattering.  She 
talked,  danced,  whirled,  laughed,  let  loose  giggling  cries.  And 
yet  her  eyes,  the  part  that  the  rouge  pot  or  the  bead  stick 
couldn't  reach,  seemed  to  grow  deader  and  deader. 

The  jazz  band  let  out  the  crash  of  a  new  melody.  The 
voices  of  the  crowd  rose  in  an  "ah-ah-ah."  Waiters  were 
shoving  fresh  tables  into  the  place,  squeezing  fresh  arrivals 
around  them. 

The  flapper  had  paused  in  her  breathless  rigmarole  of 
Johns  and  memories.  Leaning  forward  suddenly  she  cried 
into  the  newspaper  man's  ear  above  the  racket: 

"Say  this  is  a  dumb  place." 

The  newspaper  man  smiled. 

*' Ain't  it,  though?"  she  went  on.  There  was  a  pause 
and  then  the  breathless  voice  sighed.  She  spoke. 

"Gee!" — with  a  laugh  that  still  seemed  breathless — "gee, 
but  it's  lonely  here!" 


THE  INDESTRUCTIBLE  MASTERPIECE 

"You  come  with  me  to  the  Art  Institute  today,"  said  Max 
Kramm.  "My  friend  Broun  has  an  exhibition.  You  know 
Broun?  Ah,  I  think  he  is  today  the  greatest  living  artist. 
No,  we  will  walk.  It  is  only  four  or  five  blocks.  And  I  tell 
you  a  story/* 

A  story  from  Max  Kramm  is  worth  attention  even  though 
it  is  hot  and  though  the  Boul  Mich  pavement  feels  like  a  stove 
griddle  through  the  leather  of  one's  shoes.  For  the  Dante- 
faced  Max,  in  addition  to  being  one  of  the  leading  piano 
professors  of  the  country,  the  billiard  champion  of  the  Chicago 
Athletic  Club  and  the  most  erudite  porcelain  connoisseur  in 
Harper  Avenue,  is  one  of  the  survivors  of  the  race  of  racon 
teurs  that  flourished  in  the  time  of  nickel  cigars  and  the  free 
lunch. 

"I  have  eight  more  lessons  to  administer  today,"  sighed 
Max  with  a  parting  glower  at  the  premises  of  the  Chicago 
Musical  College,  "But  when  my  old  friend  Broun  has  an 
exhibition  I  go/* 

"It  was  when  we  lived  together  in  a  studio  in  North 
Avenue,"  said  Max.  "Jo  Davidson,  Walter  Goldbeck  and 
the  bunch,  we  all  roomed  together  in  the  same  neighborhood 
and  we  were  poor,  I  can  tell  you.  But  young.  And  that 
makes  up  for  a  lot  of  things. 

"Broun  and  I,  we  room  together  in  a  little  attic  where 
I  have  a  piano  and  he  paints.  Even  in  those  days  we  all  knew 
Frank  Broun  would  be  a  great  painter  if  he  didn't  starve  to 
death  first.  And  the  chances  looked  even. 

"Well,  there  was  Schneider,  of  course.  You  never  heard 
of  him,  I'll  bet  you.  No,  he  don't  paint.  And  he  don't  sing 
and  he  don't  play  the  piano.  He  was  somebody  much  more 
important  than  such  things.  Schneider  was  the  proprietor  of 
a  beer  saloon  in  North  Avenue.  Where  is  he  now,  I  wonder? 
Well,  in  those  days  he  saved  our  life  twice  a  day  regularly. 

131 


"Broun  and  I  we  keep  alive  for  one  whole  year  on 
Schneider's  free  lunch.  Herring,  pickles,  rye  bread,  pepper 
beef,  boiled  ham,  onions,  pretzels,  roast  beef  and  a  big  jar 
full  of  fine  cheese.  And,  I  forgot,  a  jar  full  of  olives  and  a 
dish  of  crackers.  Oh,  there  was  food  fit  for  a  king  in  Schnei 
der's.  You  buy  one  glass  beer,  for  five  cents,  and  then  you 
eat  till  you  bust- — for  nothing. 

"You  can't  imagine  what  that  meant  to  us  in  those  days. 
Broun  and  I,  we  sometimes  have  so  much  as  ten  cents  a  day 
between  us  and  on  this  we  must  live.  So  at  noon  we  both 
go  into  Schneider's.  Broun  says,  'You  want  a  drink,  Max? 
I  say,  'No,  Frank.*  Then  I  engage  Schneider  in  talk  while 
Broun  makes  away  with  a  meal.  Then  Broun  does  the  talking 
and  it  is  my  turn. 

"Well,  it  got  so  that  the  good  Schneider  finally  points 
out  to  us  one  day.  'Max/  he  says,  'and  Frank,  I  tell  you 
something.  You  boys  owe  me  three  dollars  and  you  come  in 
here  and  eat  all  your  meals  and  you  don't  even  pay  for  the 
one  glass  beer  you  buy  any  more.  I  am  sorry,  but  your  credit 
is  exhausted.' 

"So  you  can  imagine  what  Broun  and  I  feel  when  we  get 
home.  No  more  Schneider's,  no  more  food,  and  eventually 
we  see  ourselves  both  starving  to  death. 

'  'Max*  says  Broun,  *I  have  an  idea/     And  he  did. 

"Like  all  great  ideas,  it  was  simple.  Broun  figures  that 
what  we  need  to  do  is  to  convince  Schneider  we  have  wonder 
ful  prospects  and  so  Schneider  will  give  us  back  our  credit. 
So  Broun  sits  down  that  day  and  all  day  and  most  of  the  night 
he  paints.  I  think  it  was  the  last  canvas  he  had  in  the  studio, 
too.  And  a  big  one.  You  know  all  of  Broun's  landscapes  are 
big. 

"Well,  he  paints  and  paints,  and  when  he  is  finished 
we  take  the  picture  to  Schneider,  the  two  of  us  carrying  it.  I 
tell  Schneider  that  it  is  one  of  the  old  masters  which  we  just 
received  from  Berlin  from  my  father's  studio.  Then  Broun 

132 


says  that  Schneider  must  keep  it  in  his  place.  It  is  too  valuable 
to  hang  in  our  attic.  Schneider  looks  at  the  picture  and,  it 
being  so  big,  he  half  believes  it. 

"Then  Broun  and  I  go  to  the  bank  and  draw  out  our  $10 
which  we  have  saved  up  for  a  rainy  day.  And  we  go  down 
town  and  get  the  picture  insured  for  $2,000.  You  can  imagine 
Schneider.  We  bring  the  insurance  gink  out  there  and  when 
he  gives  us  the  policy  and  we  show  it  to  Schneider — well,  our 
credit  is  re-established.  Herring,  rye  bread,  roast  beef,  pickles 
and  cheese  once  more.  We  eat. 

"Schneider  is  more  proud  of  that  picture  than  a  peacock. 
And  every  day  we  drop  in  to  see  if  it  is  all  right  and  Broun 
always  goes  behind  the  bar  and  dusts  it  off  a  little  and  draws 
himself  another  drink.  There  is  never  any  question  any  more 
of  our  credit.  Don't  we  own  a  picture  insured  for  $2,000? 
The  good  Schneider  is  glad  to  have  such  affluent  customers, 
you  can  believe  me. 

'•'Well,  things  go  on  like  this  for  some  months.  Then  I 
am  coming  home  one  night  with  Broun  and  the  fire  engines 
pass  us.  So  Frank  and  I  we  go  to  the  fire. 

"It  is  Schneider's  beer  saloon.  We  see  it  a  block  off. 
Frank  turns  pale  and  he  holds  my  arm  and  he  whispers,  'Max 
the  picture!  It  is  burning  up!' 

"I  look  at  Broun  and  I  suppose  I  tremble  a  little  myself. 
Who  wouldn't >  Two  thousand  dollars!  'Max/  says  Broun, 
'We  go  around  the  world  together.  And  I  saw  a  suit  today 
and  a  cane  I  must  have.' 

"But  we  couldn't  talk.  We  walk  slowly  to  the  beer 
saloon.  We  walk  already  like  plutocrats,  arm  in  arm,  and 
our  faces  with  a  faraway  look.  We  are  spending  the  two 
thousand,  you  can  imagine. 

"The  saloon  is  burning  fine.  Everything  is  going  up  in 
smoke.  Broun  and  I,  we  hold  on  to  each  other.  We  see  Jo 
Davidson  running  to  the  fire  and  we  nod  at  him  politely. 
Money  makes  a  big  difference,  you  know. 

133 


"And  then  we  hear  a  cry.  I  recognize  Schneider  and  I 
see  him  break  loose  from  the  crowd.  He  runs  back  into  the 
burning  saloon,  a  fireman  after  him.  Broun  and  I,  we  stand 
and  watch.  He  is  probably  gone  after  one  of  his  kids.  But 
I  count  the  kids  who  are  all  in  the  street  and  they  are  all 
there. 

"Then  Schneider  comes  out  and  the  fireman,  too.  And 
they  are  carrying  something.  Broun  falls  against  the  delica 
tessen  store  window  and  groans.  And  I  close  my  eyes.  Yes, 
it  is  the  picture. 

"Schneider  sees  us  and  comes  rushing.  He  is  half  burned 
up.  But  the  picture  is  not  touched.  He  and  the  fireman  hand 
us  the  picture.  As  for  me,  I  turn  away  and  I  lose  command  of 
the  English  language. 

1  'You  boys  trusted  me/  says  Schneider,  'and  I  remem 
bered  just  in  time.  I  remembered  your  picture.  I  may  not 
be  an  artist,  but  I  don't  let  a  masterpiece  burn  up.  Not  in  my 
saloon.  So  I  save  it.  It  is  the  only  thing  I  save  out  of  the 
whole  saloon/  And  he  wrings  Broun' s  hand,  and  I  say,  'thanks.* 
That  night,  all  night  long,  I  played  Beethoven.  The  Ninth 
Symphony  is  good  for  feelings  such  as  mine  and  Broun's." 

It  is  cooler  in  the  Art  Institute  and  Max,  smiling  in 
memory  of  other  days,  looks  at  the  Broun  exhibition. 

"I  could  finish  the  story  by  telling  you  excitedly  that  this 
landscape  here  is  the  picture  Schneider  saved,"  he  went  on, 
pointing  to  one  of  the  large  canvases.  "But  no.  It  wouldn't 
be  the  truth.  I  have  the  picture  home.  It  is  not  yet  worth 
$2,000,  but  in  a  few  years  more,  who  knows?  Maybe  I  have 
cause  to  thank  Schneider  yet" 


SATRAPS  AT  PLAY 

The  elfin-faced  danseuse  puts  it  over.  Her  voice  sounds 
like  a  run-down  fifteen-cent  harmonica.  But  that  doesn't 
matter.  Not  at  two  a.  m.  in  an  all-night  cabaret.  You  don't 
need  a  voice  to  knock  us  out  of  our  seats.  You  need  something 

else — pep. 

**I  wanna  be — in  Tennuhsee,"  the  elfin-faced  one  squeaks. 
And  the  ladies  of  the  chorus  grin  vacuously  and  kick  their  pink 
tights.  One,  two,  kick!  One,  two,  kick!  I  wanna  be — in 
Tennuhsee.  One,  two,  kick!  The  third  one  on  the  other  side 
looks  all  right.  No,  too  fat.  There's  one.  The  one  at  the 
end.  Pretty,  ain't  she?  Who?  You  mean  the  one  with  the 
long  nose?  No,  whatsamatter  with  you?  The  one  with  the 
eyes.  See.  She's  bending  over  now.  Some  kid. 

Two  a.  m.  outside.  Dark  streets.  Sleepy  chauffeurs 
dreaming  of  $  1 0  tips.  All-night  Greek  restaurants.  Twenty- 
second  Street  has  gone  to  bed.  But  we  sit  in  the  warm  cabaret, 
devilishly  proud  of  ourselves.  We're  a  part  of  the  gang  that 
stays  awake  when  the  stars  are  out. 

And  the  elfin-faced  one  cuts  loose.  Attaboy,  girlie! 
Legs  shooting  through  the  tobacco  smoke.  Eyes  like  drunken 
birds.  A  banjo  body  playing  jazz  capers  on  the  air.  It  ain't 
art.  But  who  the  devil  wants  art?  What  we  want  are  con 
niption  fits.  This  is  the  way  the  soul  of  Franz  Liszt  looked 
when  he  was  writing  music.  Mumba  Jumba  had  a  dream  that 
looked  like  this  one  night  when  the  jungle  moon  arched  its 
back  and  spat  at  his  black  linen  face. 

All  right.  Three  a.  m.  Bring  out  the  lions  and  the 
Christians  now.  The  master  of  ceremonies  is  a  fat  man  with 
little,  ineffectual  hands  and  a  voice  that  bows  and  genuflects 
and  throws  itself  politely  worshipful  at  our  feet. 

Amateur  night,  says  the  voice,  and  some  ladies  and  gen 
tlemen  will  seek  to  entertain  us  with  a  few  specialties  for  our 
amusement.  And  will  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  audi 
ence  applaud  according  to  the  merit  of  each  performer?  For 

136 


j 


the  one  who  gets  the  most  applause,  he  or  she  will  win  the 
grand  first  prize  of  fifty  bones. 

Attaboy!  Will  we  applaud?  Say,  bring  'ern  out!  Bring 
'em  out!  Ah,  here  she  is.  A  pale,  trembling  little  morsel  with 
frightened  eyes  and  a  worn  blue  serge  skirt.  The  floor  is 
slippery.  "Miss  Waghwoughblngsz,"  says  the  voice,  "will 
sing  for  your  entertainment." 

A  terrified  little  squeak.  A  Mae  Marsh  grimace  of  cour 
age.  Good!  Say,  she's  great!  Look  at  her  try  to  swing  her 
body.  And  her  arms  have  lost  their  joints.  And  she's  for 
gotten  the  words.  Poor  little  tyke.  Throw  her  something. 
Pennies.  While  she's  singing.  See  who  can  hit  her. 

So  we  throw  her  pennies  and  nickels  and  dimes.  They 
land  on  her  head  and  one  takes  her  on  the  nose.  And  her 
voice  dies  away  like  a  baby  bird  falling  out  of  a  nest.  And  she 
stands  still — jerking  her  mouth  and  the  pennies  falling  all 
around  her.  And  a  cynical-looking  youth  bounces  out  and 
picks  them  up.  Bravo !  She  tried  to  bow  and  slipped.  Another 
round  of  applause  for  that.  All  right,  take  her  away.  What 
did  she  sing?  What  was  the  song  that  mumbled  itself  through 
the  laughter  and  the  rain  of  pennies? 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  Mr.  Sghsgbrszsg  will  endeavor 
to  entertain  you  with  a  ballad  for  your  amusement.  That's 
fine.  After  three  a.  m.  outside.  Cold  and  dark.  But  nothing 
cold  or  dark  about  us.  We're  just  getting  started.  Bring  'em 
out.  Bring  out  the  ballad  singer. 

Ah,  there's  a  lad  for  you.  His  shoes  all  shined  and  a 
clean  collar  on  and  his  face  carefully  shaved  at  home.  But 
his  hands  wouldn't  wash  clean.  The  shop  grime  lingers  on  his 
hands  and  in  his  broken  nails.  But  his  eyes  are  blue  and  he's 
going  to  sing.  The  boys  at  the  shop  know  his  songs.  The 
noon  hour  knows  them. 

But  his  voice  sounds  different  here  under  the  beating 
tungstens.  It  quavers.  Something  about  Ireland.  A  little 

137 


bit  of  heaven.  He  can't  sing.  If  he  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves 
and  the  collar  was  off  and  his  face  didn't  hurt  from  the  dull 
safety  razor  blade — it  would  sound  better.  But — pennies  for 
him.  Hit  the  singing  boy  in  the  eye  and  win  the  hand-painted 
cazaza. 

"A  little  bit  of  heaven  called  Ireland,"  is  what  he's  sing 
ing.  And  the  noises  start.  The  pennies  and  nickels  rain. 
Finis!  Not  so  good.  He  sang  it  all  the  way  through  and  his 
voice  grew  better  and  better.  Take  him  away.  We  didn't 
like  the  way  his  eyes  blazed  back  at  us  when  the  pennies  fell. 
Not  so  good.  Not  so  good. 

Here  she  is.  Little  Bertha,  the  Sewing  Machine  Girl. 
In  the  flesh.  And  walking  across  the  slippery  dance  floor 
with  her  French  heeled  patent  leathers  wiggling  under  her. 
Bertha's  the  doodles.  This  is  the  way  she  stood  at  the  piano 
at  Sadie's  party.  This  is  the  way  she  smiled  at  the  errand  boys 
and  counter  jumpers  at  Sadie's  party.  This  is  the  way  she 
bowed  and  this  is  the  song  she  sang  to  them  that  they 
applauded  so  much. 

And  this  is  too  good  to  be  true.  Bravo  six  times.  Dimes 
and  quarters  and  a  majestic  half  dollar  that  takes  Bertha  on 
the  ear.  Bravo  eleven  times.  Bertha  stands  smirking  and 
moving  her  shoulders  and  singing  in  a  piping  little  shop-girl 
voice.  Encore,  'c/ierze/  Encore!  And  it  goes  to  Bertha's  head. 
The  applause  and  laughter,  the  lights  and  the  pounding  of  the 
pennies  falling  out  of  heaven  around  her  feet — these  are  too 
much  for  Bertha.  She  ends.  Her  arms  make  a  gesture,  a 
weak  little  gesture  as  if  she  were  embracing  one  of  the  errand 
boys  in  a  vestibule,  saying  good-night.  A  vague  radiance 
comes  over  Bertha's  face.  Bravo  twenty-nine  times.  The 
grand  prize  of  fifty  bones  is  hers.  Wait  and  see  if  it  ain't. 

More  lions  and  more  Christians.  Bring  fem  out.  The 
sad-looking  boy  with  the  harmonica.  He  forgets  the  tune 
all  the  time  and  we  laugh  and  hit  him  with  pennies.  The 
clerk  with  the  shock  of  black  hair  who  does  an  Apache  dance, 

138 


and  does  it  well.     Too  well.     And  the  female  impersonator 
who  does  a  can-can  female  dance  very  well.     Much  too  well. 

Nobody  wants  them.  We  want  Bertha,  the  Sewing 
Machine  Girl.  There  was  a  thrill  to  her.  The  way  she  looked 
when  the  applause  grew  loud.  The  way  her  girl  arms  reached 
out  toward  something.  As  if  we  at  the  tables  rolling  around  in 
our  seats  and  laughing  our  heads  off  and  all  dressed  up  and 
guzzling  sandwiches  and  ginger  ale,  as  if  we  were  something 
at  a  rainbow  end. 

Bring  her  on  again.  Line  *em  up.  Now  we*  11  applaud 
the  one  we  liked  the  best.  For  his  nobs  who  gargled  the  Irish 
ballad,  two  bravos.  If  he  hadn't  got  mad  at  us.  Or  if  he'd 
got  madder  and  spat  a  little  more  behind  the  music  that  came 
from  him.  But  he  didn't.  The  first  gal  who  died  on  the 
floor.  Whose  heart  collapsed.  Whose  eyes  went  blank  with 
terror.  Nine  bravos  for  her.  There  was  a  thrill  to  her.  Bravos 
for  the  rest  of  them,  too.  But  Bertha  wins  the  hand-painted 
cazaza.  Fifty  bucks  for  Bertha.  Here  you  are,  Bertha.  You 
win. 

Look,  she's  crying.  That's  all  right,  HT  girl.  That's  all 
right.  Don't  cry.  We  just  gave  you  the  prize  because  you 
gave  us  a  thrill.  That's  fair  enough.  Because  of  all  the  gen 
iuses  who  performed  for  our  amusement  and  whom  we  bom 
barded  with  pennies  you  were  the  only  one  who  threw  out 
your  arms  and  your  eyes  to  us  as  if  we  were  rainbow's  end. 


MRS.  SARDOTOPOLIS'  EVENING  OFF 

Mrs.  Sardotopolis  hurried  along  without  looking  into  the 
store  window.  She  was  carrying  her  baby  home  from  the 
doctor's  office.  The  doctor  said,  "Hurry  on.  Get  him  home 
and  don't  buy  him  any  ice  cream  on  the  way."  Mrs.  Sardo 
topolis  lived  in  a  place  above  a  candy,  book  and  notion  store 
at  608  South  Halsted  street. 

It  was  late  afternoon.  Greeks,  Jews,  Russians,  Italians, 
Czechs,  were  busy  in  the  street.  They  sat  outside  their  stores 
in  old  chairs,  hovered  protectingly  over  the  outdoor  knick- 
knack  counters,  walked  lazily  in  search  of  iced  drinks  or  stood 
with  their  noses  close  together  arguing. 

The  store  windows  glittered  with  crude  colors  and  careless 
peasants'  clothes.  It  was  at  such  times  as  this,  hurrying  home 
from  a  doctor's  office  or  a  grocery  store,  that  Mrs.  Sardotopolis 
enjoyed  herself.  Her  little  eyes  would  take  in  the  gleaming 
arrays  of  tin  pans,  calico  remnants,  picture  books,  hair  combs 
and  things  like  that  with  which  the  merchants  of  Halsted  Street- 
fill  their  windows. 

But  this  time  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  had  seven  blocks  to  go 
to  her  home  and  there  was  no  time  for  looking  at  things. 
Despite  the  heat  she  had  carefully  wrapped  the  baby  in  her 
arms  in  a  shawl. 

When  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  got  home  there  would  be  eight 
other  children  to  take  care  of.  But  that  was  a  simple  matter. 
None  of  them  was  sick.  When  the  eight  children  weren't 
sick  they  tumbled,  shrieked  and  squealed  in  the  dark  hallway 
or  in  the  street.  Anywhere.  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  only  listened 
with  half  an  ear.  As  long  as  they  made  noise  they  were 
healthy.  So  from  day  to  day  she  listened  not  for  their  noise 
but  to  hear  if  any  of  them  grew  quiet. 

Joe  had  grown  quiet.  Joe  was  the  baby,  a  year  and 
a  half,  and  quite  a  citizen.  After  several  days  Mrs.  Sardo 
topolis  couldn't  stand  Joe's  quiet  any  more.  His  skin,  too, 

140 


made  her  feel  sad.  His  skin  was  hot  and  dry.  So  she  had 
hurried  off  to  the  doctor- 
There  was  hardly  time  in  her  day  for  such  an  errand. 
Now  she  must  get  home  quickly.  Mr.  Sardotopolis  and  his 
three  brothers  would  be  home  before  it  got  dark.  In  the 
kitchen  in  the  big  pot  she  had  left  three  chickens  cooking. 

A  gypsy  leaned  out  of  a  doorway.  She  was  dressed  in 
many  red,  blue  and  yellow  petticoats  and  waists.  Beads  hung 
from  her  neck  and  her  withered  arms  were  alive  with  copper 
bracelets. 

"Tell  your  fortune,  missus,"  she  called. 

Mrs.  Sardotopolis  hurried  by  with  no  more  than  a  look. 
Some  day  she  would  let  the  gypsy  tell  her  fortune.  It  cost 
only  twenty-five  cents.  But  now  there  was  no  time.  Too 
much  to  do.  Her  arms — heavy,  tireless  arms  that  knew  how 
to  work  for  fifteen  hours  each  day — clung  to  the  bundle  Joe 
made  in  his  shawl. 

But  the  doctor  was  a  fool.  What  harm  could  ice  cream 
do?  When  anybody  was  sick  ice  cream  could  make  them 
well.  So  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  lifted  Joe  up  and  turned  her  eyes 
toward  an  ice  cream  stand.  She  stopped.  If  Joe  said, 
"Wanna,"  she  would  buy  him  some.  But  Joe  didn't  seem  to 
know  what  she  was  offering,  although  usually  he  was  quite 
a  citizen.  So  she  said  aloud,  "Wanna  ice  cream,  Joe?" 

To  this  Joe  made  no  answer  except  to  let  his  head  fall 
back.  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  grew  frightened  and  walked  fast. 

As  she  came  near  her  home  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  was  leaning 
over  the  bundle  in  her  arms,  crying,  "Joe!  Joe!  Do  you  hear, 
Joe?" 

The  streets  swarmed  with  the  early  evening  crowds  of 
men  and  women  going  home.  In  the  cars  the  people  stood 
packed  as  if  they  were  sardines. 

A  few  feet  from  her  door  beside  the  candy  and  notion 
store  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  stopped.  Her  heavy  face  had  grown 

141 


white.  She  raised  the  bundle  closer  to  her  eyes  and  looked 
at  it. 

"Joe!"  she  repeated.    "What's  a  matter,  Joe?" 

The  bundle  was  silent.  So  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  pinched 
it.  Then  she  stared  at  the  closed  eyes.  Then  she  seized  the 
bundle  and  crushed  it  desperately  in  her  heavy  arms,  against 
her  heavy  bosom. 

"Joe!"  she  repeated.     "What's  a  matter,  Joe?" 

The  glazier  sitting  in  front  of  his  glassware  store  stood  up 
and  blinked. 

"Whatsamatter?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Sardotopolis  didn't  answer,  but  stood  in  front  of 
her  house,  holding  the  bundle  in  her  arms  and  repeating  its 
name.  A  small  crowd  gathered.  She  addressed  herself  to 
several  women  of  her  race. 

"I  knew,  before  it  come,"  she  said.  "He  didn't  want 
no  ice  cream." 

Mrs.  Sardotopolis  walked  upstairs  and  laid  the  bundle 
down  on  the  table.  It  lay  without  moving  and  Mrs.  Sardo 
topolis  stood  over  it  without  moving.  Then  she  sat  down  in 
a  chair  beside  it  and  began  to  cry. 

When  Mr.  Sardotopolis  and  his  three  brothers  came  home 
from  driving  the  wagon  they  found  her  still  crying. 

"Joe  is  dead,"  she  said. 

The  other  children  were  all  properly  noisy.  Mr.  Sardo 
topolis  said,  "I  will  call  my  sisters  and  mother."  He  went 
over,  looked  at  the  child  that  lay  dead  on  the  table  and  stroked 
its  head. 

The  sisters  and  mothers  arrived.  They  took  charge  of 
the  big  pot  with  the  three  chickens  in  it,  of  the  eight  squalling 
little  ones  and  of  the  silent  bundle  on  the  table.  There  were 
four  sisters.  As  it  grew  dark  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  found  that 
she  was  sitting  alone  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  She  felt  tired. 
There  was  no  use  hugging  the  baby  any  more.  Joe  was  dead. 
In  a  few  days  he  would  be  buried.  Tears.  Yes,  particularly 

142 


since  in  a  few  months  he  would  have  had  a  smaller  brother. 
Now  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  was  frightened.  Joe  was  the  first  to 
die. 

She  walked  out  of  the  house,  down  the  dark  hallway 
into  the  street.  "It  will  do  her  good,"  said  her  mother-in-law, 
who  watched  her. 

In  the  street  there  was  nothing  to  do.  There  were  no 
errands  to  make.  She  could  just  walk.  People  were  just 
walking.  Young  people  arm  in  arm.  It  was  a  summer  night 
in  Halsted  Street.  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  walked  until  her  eyes 
grew  clearer.  She  took  a  deep  breath  and  looked  about  her 
nervously.  There  was  a  gypsy  leaning  out  of  the  doorway. 
Mrs.  Sardotopolis  stared  at  her. 

"Tell  your  fortune,  missus,"  called  the  gypsy. 

Mrs.  Sardotopolis  nodded  and  entered  the  hallway.  Her 
head  felt  dizzy.  But  there  was  nothing  to  do  until  tomorrow, 
when  they  buried  Joe.  With  a  curious  thrill  under  her  heavy 
bosom,  Mrs.  Sardotopolis  held  out  her  work-coarsened  palm 
to  the  gypsy. 


m 


a-  r/i 


'*•'  -^f"^-  '*   V 


i 


THE  GREAT  TRAVELER 

Alexander  Ginkel  has  been  around  the  world.  A  week 
ago  he  came  to  Chicago  and,  after  looking  around  for 
a  few  days,  located  in  one  of  the  less  expensive  hotels  and 
started  to  work  as  a  porter  in  a  well-known  department  store 
downtown. 

A  friend  said,  "There's  a  man  living  in  my  hotel  who 
should  make  a  good  story.  He's  been  around  the  world. 
Worked  in  England,  Bulgaria,  Russia,  Siberia,  China  and 
everywhere.  Was  cook  on  a  tramp  steamer  in  the  south  seas. 
A  remarkable  fellow,  really.*' 

In  this  way  I  came  to  call  on  Ginkel.  I  found  him 
after  work  in  his  room.  He  was  a  short  man,  over  30,  and 
looked  uninteresting.  I  told  him  that  we  should  be  able  to 
get  some  sort  of  story  out  of  his  travels  and  experiences.  He 
nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I've  been  all  around  the  world." 

Then  he  became  silent  and  looked  at  me  hopefully. 

I  explained,  "People  like  to  read  about  travelers.  They 
sit  at  home  themselves  and  wonder  what  it  would  be  like  to 
travel.  You  probably  had  a  lot  of  experiences  that  would 
give  people  a  vicarious  thrill.  I  understand  you  were  a  cook 
on  a  tramp  steamer  in  the  south  seas." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Ginkel,  "I've  been  all  over.  I've  been 
around  the  world." 

We  lighted  pipes  and  Ginkel  removed  a  book  from 
a  drawer  in  the  dresser.  He  opened  it  and  I  saw  it  was  a 
book  of  photographs — mostly  pictures  taken  with  a  small 
camera. 

"Here  are  some  things  you  could  use,*'  he  said.  "You 
wanna  look  at  them." 

We  went  through  the  pictures  together. 

"This  one  here,"  said  Ginkel,  "is  me  in  Vladivostok. 
It  was  taken  on  the  corner  there." 


The  photograph  showed  Ginkel  dressed  just  as  he  was 
in  the  hatel  room,  standing  near  a  lamp  post  on  a  street 
corner.  There  was  visible  a  part  of  a  store  window. 

"This  one  is  interesting,'*  said  Ginkel,  warming  up. 
"It  was  taken  in  the  archipelago.  You  know  where.  I  forget 
the  name  of  the  town.  But  it  was  in  the  south  seas.'* 

We  both  studied  it  for  a  space.  It  showed  Ginkel  stand 
ing  underneath  something  that  looked  like  a  palm  tree.  But 
the  tree  was  slightly  out  of  focus.  So  were  Ginkel' s  feet. 

"It  is  interesting,'*  said  Ginkel,  "But  it  ain't  such  a  good 
picture.  The  lower  part  is  kind  of  blurred,  you  notice.*' 

We  looked  through  the  album  in  silence  for  a  while. 
Then  Ginkel  suddenly  remembered  something. 

"Oh,  I  almost  forgot,"  he  said.  "There's  one  I  think 
you'll  like.  It  was  taken  in  Calcutta.  You  know  where.  Here 
it  is." 

He  pointed  proudly  toward  the  end  of  the  book.  We 
studied  it  through  the  tobacco  smoke.  It  was  a  photograph  of 
Ginkel  dressed  in  the  same  clothes  as  before  and  standing 
under  a  store  awning. 

"There  was  a  good  light  on  this,"  said  Ginkel,  "and 
you  see  how  plain  it  comes  out." 

Then  we  continued  without  comment  to  study  other 
photographs.  There  were  at  least  several  hundred.  They 
were  all  of  Ginkel.  Most  of  them  were  blurred  and  showed 
odds  and  ends  of  backgrounds  out  of  focus,  such  as  trees, 
street  cars,  buildings,  telephone  poles.  There  was  one  that 
finally  aroused  Ginkel  to  comment: 

"This  would  have  been  a  good  one,  but  it  got  light 
struck,"  he  said.  "It  was  taken  in  Bagdad.** 

When  we  had  exhausted  the  album  Ginkel  felt  more 
at  ease.  He  offered  me  some  tobacco  from  his  pouch.  I 
resumed  the  original  line  of  questioning. 

147 


"Did  you  have  any  unusual  adventures  during  your 
travels  or  did  you  get  any  ideas  that  we  could  fix  up  for  a 
story/*  I  asked. 

"Well,"  said  Gink  el,  "I  was  always  a  camera  bug, 
you  know.  I  guess  that's  what  gave  me  the  bug  for  traveling. 
To  take  pictures,  you  know.  I  got  a  lot  more  than  these,  but 
I  ain't  mounted  them  yet." 

"Are  they  like  the  ones  in  the  book." 

"Not  quite  so  good,  most  of  them,"  Ginkel  answered. 
"They  were  taken  when  I  hadn't  had  much  experience." 

"You  must  have  been  in  Russia  while  the  revolution  was 
going  on,  weren't  you?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I  got  one  there."  He  opened  the  book  again. 
"Here,"  he  said.  "This  was  in  Moscow.  I  was  in  Moscow 
when  this  was  taken." 

It  was  another  picture  of  Ginkel  slightly  out  of  focus 
and  standing  against  a  store  front.  I  asked  him  suddenly  who 
had  taken  all  the  pictures. 

"Oh,  that  was  easy,"  he  said.  "I  can  always  find  some 
body  to  do  that.  I  take  a  picture  of  them  first  and  then  they 
take  one  of  me.  I  always  give  them  the  one  I  take  of  them 
and  keep  the  one  they  take  of  me." 

"Did  you  see  any  of  the  revolution,  Ginkel?" 

"A  lot  of  'monkey  business,"  said  Ginkel.  "I  seen 
some  of  it.  Not  much." 

The  last  thing  I  said  was,  "You  must  have  come  in  for 
a  lot  of  sights.  We  might  fix  up  a  story  about  that  if  you 
could  give  me  a  line  on  them."  And  the  last  thing  Ginkel 
said  was: 

"Oh,  yes,  I've  been  around  the  world." 


148 


THUMBS  UP  AND  DOWN 

Later  the  art  jury  will  sit  on  them.  The  art  jury  will 
discuss  tone  and  modeling,  rhythm  and  chiaroscuro  and  per 
spective.  And  in  the  light  of  these  discussions  and  decisions 
the  art  jury  will  sort  out  the  masterpieces  that  are  to  be  hung 
in  the  Chicago  artists*  exhibition  and  the  masterpieces  that 
are  not  to  be  hung. 

Right  now,  however,  Louis  and  Mike  are  unwrapping 
them.  Every  day  between  nine  and  five  Louis  and  Mike 
assemble  in  the  basement  of  the  Art  Institute,  The  master 
pieces  arrive  by  the  bushel,  the  truckload,  the  basketful.  Louis 
unwraps  them.  Mike  stacks  them  up.  Louis  then  calls  off  their 
names  and  the  names  of  geniuses  responsible  for  them.  Mike 
writes  this  vital  information  down  in  a  book. 

Art  is  a  contagious  business.  Perfectly  normal  and 
marvelously  wholesome-minded  people  are  as  likely  to  suc 
cumb  to  it  as  anybody  else.  It  is  significant  that  the  Purity 
League  meeting  in  the  city  a  few  weeks  ago  discussed  the 
dangers  which  lay  in  exposing  even  decent,  law-abiding  people 
to  art,  any  kind  of  art. 

The  insidious  influence  of  art  cannot,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
be  exaggerated.  I  personally  know  of  a  number  of  very  fine 
and  highly  respected  citizens  who  have  been  lured  away  from 
their  very  business  by  art. 

However,  this  is  no  place  to  sound  the  alarm.  I  will 
some  day  talk  on  the  subject  before  the  Rotary  Club.  To 
return  to  Louis  and  Mike.  After  Mike  writes  the  vital  infor 
mation  down  in  a  book  Louis  carts  the  canvas  over  to  a  truck 
and  it  is  ready  for  the  jury  room. 

When  they  started  on  the  job  Louis  and  Mike  were 
frankly  indifferent.  They  might  just  as  well  have  been  unwrap 
ping  herring  cases.  And  they  were  exceedingly  efficient  They 
unwrapped  them  and  catalogued  them  as  fast  as  they  came. 

149 


In  three  days,  however,  the  workmanlike  morale  with 
which  Louis  and  Mike  started  on  the  job  has  been  undermined. 
They  have  grown  more  leisurely.  They  no  longer  bundle  the 
pictures  around  like  herring  cases.  Instead  they  look  at  them, 
try  them  this  way  and  that  way  until  they  find  out  which  way 
is  right  side  up.  Then  they  pass  judgment. 

Louis  unwraps  them.  I  was  standing  by  in  the  basement 
with  Bert  Elliott,  who  has  submitted  a  modernistic  picture  of 
Michigan  Avenue,  the  Wrigley  Building  and  the  sky,  called 
"Up,  Straight  and  Across." 

"  The  Home  of  the  Muskrat,'  "  Louis  called.  Mike  wrote 
it  down.  "Wanna  look  at  it,  Mike?" 

"Yeah,  let's  see."  Time  out  for  critical  inspection.  "Say, 
this  guy  never  saw  a  muskrat  house.  That  ain't  the  way." 

*  'Isle  of  Dreams,*  "  called  Louis.  "Hm!  You  can't 
tell  which  is  right  side  up.  I  guess  it  goes  like  this." 

"No.  The  other,"  said  Mike.  "Try  it  on  its  side.  There, 
I  told  you  so.  'Isle  of  Dreams/  I  don't  see  no  isle." 

"Here's  a  cuckoo,"  called  Louis,  suddenly.       '  'Mist*  * 

"What?" 

'  'Mist,'  it  says,  only  *Mist/  Mike.  I'll  say  he  missed. 
It  ain't  no  picture  at  all.  That's  a  swell  idee.  Draw  a  picture 
in  a  fog  and  have  the  fog  so  heavy  you  can't  see  nothing,  then 
you  don't  have  to  put  any  picture  in.  Can  you  beat  it?" 

"Go  on.    Try  another." 

"All  right.  Here's  one.  'The  Faithful  Friend/  Now 
there's  what  I  call  a  picture.  I  knowed  a  guy  who  owned  a 
dog  that  looked  just  like  this.  A  setter  or  something." 

"Go  on.    That  ain't  a  setter.     It's  a  spaniel." 

"You're  cuckoo,  Mike.  Tell  me  it's  a  spaniel!  Let's  put 
it  up  ahead.  It's  probably  one  of  the  prize  winners.  Here's 
a  daffy  one.  *At  Play/  What's  at  play?  I  don't  see  nothin' 
at  play.  Take  a  look,  Mike." 

"It's  a  sea  picture.    There's  the  sea,  the  gray  part" 

ISO 


"You're  nuts.  Hennessey  has  a  sea  picture  over  the  bar 
with  some  gals  on  the  rocks.  You  know  the  one  I  mean.  And 
if  this  is  a  sea  picture  I'm  a  orang-outang." 

"Well,  Louis,  it's  probably  a  different  sea.  Can  you 
imagine  anybody  sending  a  thing  like  that  in?  It  ain't  hardly 
worth  the  work  of  unwrapping  it.  Hurry  up,  Louis,  we're 
'way  behind." 

"Well,  take  this,  then.  'Children  of  the  Ice/  Hm,  I 
don't  see  no  kids.  I  suppose  this  stuff  here  is  the  ice.  But 
where's  the  kids?" 

"He  probably  means  the  birds  over  there,  Louis." 

"If  he  means  the  birds  why  don't  he  say  birds  instead  of 
children?  Why  don't  he  say  'birds  of  the  ice?  What's  the 
sense  of  saying  'children  of  the  ice'  when  he  means  birds?" 

"Go  on,  Louis.     Don't  argue  with  me.     Hurry  up." 

"Here's  some  photographs." 

*Them  ain't  photographs,  you  nut.     They're  portraits." 

"Well,  they  look  almost  as  good  as  photographs.  'My 
Favorite  Pupil.*  It's  pretty  good,  Mike.  See,  there's  the  violin. 
He's  a  violin  pupil.  You  can  tell.  Got  it?" 

"Yeah.     Bring  on  the  next." 

A  silence  came  over  Louis.  He  stood  for  several  minutes 
staring  at  something. 

"Hurry  up,"  calle  Mike.     "It's  getting  late." 

"This  is  a  mistake,"  called  Louis.  "Here's  one  that's  a 
mistake." 

"How  come,  Louis?" 

"Well,  look  at  it.  You  can  see  for  yourself.  The  guy 
made  a  mistake." 

"What  does  it  read  on  the  back?  Hurry,  we  can't  waste 
no  more  time." 

"It  reads  'Up,  Down  and  Across*  or  something.  It's  a 
mistake  though."  Louis  remained  eyeing  the  canvas  raptly. 
"It  ain't  finished,  Mike.  We  ought  to  send  it  back." 

151 


"Let's  see,  Louis."  Time  out  for  critical  inspection. 
"You're  right.  It  is  a  mistake.  'Up,  Down  and  Across,'  you 
said.  Well,  we'll  let  it  ride.  It's  not  our  fault.  What's  the 
name  of  the  guy?" 

"Bert  Elliott,"  called  Louis.  A  laugh  followed.  Louis 
turned  to  me  and  my  friend. 

"You  see  this?"  he  said.  "I  get  it  now.  That's  the 
Wrigley  Building  over  there.  What  do  you  know  about  that?" 

Louis  seized  his  sides  and  doubled  up.  Mr.  Elliott,  beside 
me,  cleared  his  throat  and  glanced  apprehensively  at  his  can 
vas. 

"I'll  say  it's  the  first  one  he  laughed  at,"  said  Mr.  Elliott, 
pensively.  "He  didn't  laugh  at  any  of  the  others.  Look,  he's 
still  looking  at  it.  That's  longer  than  he  looked  at  any  of  the 
others." 

"All  right,  Louis,"  from  Mike.     "Come  on." 

"Ho,  ho,"  Louis  went  on,  "I'd  like  to  see  this  guy  Elliott. 
Anybody  who  would  draw  a  picture  like  that.  Hold  your 
horses,  Mike,  here's  another.  'The  Faun/  What's  a  faun, 
Mike?  I  guess  he  means  fern.  It  looks  like  a  fern." 

"It  does  that,  Louis.  But  we'll  have  to  let  it  go  as  a  faun. 
It's  probably  a  foreign  word.  Most  of  these  artists  are  for 
eigners,  anyway." 

Mr.  Elliott  and  I  left,  Mr.  Elliott  remarking  on  the  way 
down  the  Institute  steps,  "Ho,  hum." 


ORNAMENTS 


Ornaments  change,  and  perhaps  not  for  the  best.  The 
scherzo  architecture  of  Villon's  Paris,  the  gabled  caprice  of 
Shakespeare's  London,  the  Rip  Van  Winkle  jauntiness  of  a 
vanished  New  York,  these  are  ghosts  that  wander  among  the 
skyscrapers  and  dynamo  beltings  of  modernity. 

One  by  one  the  charming  blunders  of  the  past  have  been 
set  to  rights.  Highways  are  no  longer  the  casual  folderols  of 
adventure,  but  the  reposeful  and  efficient  arteries  of  traffic.  The 
roofs  of  the  town  are  no  longer  a  rumble  of  idiotic  hats  cocked 
at  a  devil-may-care  angle.  Windows  no  longer  wink  lopsidedly 
at  one  another.  Doorways  and  chimneys,  railings  and  lanterns 
have  changed.  Cobblestones  and  dirt  have  vanished,  at  least 
officially. 

Towns  once  were  like  improvised  little  melodramas.  Men 
once  wore  their  backgrounds  as  they  wore  their  clothes — to 
fit  their  moods.  A  cap  and  feather,  a  gable  and  a  latticed  win 
dow  for  romance.  A  glove  and  rapier,  a  turret  and  a  postern 
gate  for  adventure.  And  for  our  immemorial  friend  Routine 
a  humpty-dumpty  jumble  of  alleys,  feather  pens,  cobblestones, 
echoing  stairways  and  bouncing  milk  carts. 

These  things  have  all  been  properly  corrected.  Today 
the  city  frowns  from  one  end  to  the  other  like  a  highly  efficient 
and  insanely  practical  platitude.  Mood  has  given  way  to 
mode.  An  essential  evolution,  alas!  D'Artagnan  wore  his 
Paris  as  a  cloak.  And  perhaps  Mr.  Insull  wears  his  Chicago 
as  a  shirt  front.  But  most  of  us  have  parted  company  with 
the  town.  It  is  a  background  designed  and  marvelously 
executed  for  our  conveniences.  The  great  metronomes  of  the 
loop  with  their  million  windows,  the  deft  crisscross  of  streets, 
the  utilitarian  miracles  of  plumbing,  doorways,  heating  sys 
tems  and  passenger  carriers — these  are  monuments  to  our 
collective  sanity. 

But  if  one  is  insane,  if  one  has  inherited  one's  grand- 

153 


father's  characteristics  as  idler,  loafer,  lounger,  dreamer,  lover 
or  picaroon,  what  then?  Eh,  one  stays  at  home  and  tells  it  to 
the  typewriter  or,  more  likely,  one  gets  run  down,  chewed  up 
and  bespattered  while  darting  across  State  Street  in  quest  of 
an  invigorating  vanilla  phosphate. 

Nevertheless — there's  a  word  that  speaks  innate  optimism, 
nevertheless,  there  are  things  which  do  not  change  as  logically 
as  do  ornaments.  Men  and  women,  for  instance.  And 
although  the  town  wears  its  mask  of  deplorable  sanity  and 
though  Sunnyside  Avenue  seems  suavely  reminiscent  of  Von 
Biasing's  troops  goose-stepping  through  Belgium — there  are 
men  and  women. 

One  naturally  inquires,  where?  Quite  so,  where  are  there 
men  and  women  in  the  city?  One  sees  crowds.  But  men  and 
women  are  lost.  One  observes  crowds  answering  the  adver 
tisements.  The  advertisements  say,  come  here,  go  there.  And 
one  sees  men  and  women  devotedly  bent  upon  rewarding  the 
advertisers. 

Again,  nevertheless,  there  are  other  observations  to  make. 
There  are  the  taxicabs.  Here  in  the  taxicabs  one  may  still 
observe  men  and  women.  Villon's  Paris,  Shakespeare's  Lon 
don  and  vanished  New  York,  these  are  crowded  into  the 
taxicabs.  In  the  taxicabs  men  and  women  still  wear  the  fur 
tive,  illogical,  questing,  mysterious  devil-may-care,  wasterel 
adventure  masks  of  their  grandfathers'  yesterdays. 

What  ho!  A  devilishly  involved  argument,  that,  when 
the  taxicab  owners  plume  themselves  upon  being  the  last  word 
in  the  matter  of  deplorable  efficiency,  the  ultimate  gasp  in  the 
business  of  convenience!  Nevertheless,  although  Mr.  Hertz 
points  with  proper  scorn  to  the  sedan  chair,  the  palanquin, 
the  ox  cart  and  the  Ringling  Brothers'  racing  chariots,  we 
sweep  a  three-dollar  fedora  across  the  ground,  raise  our  eye 
brows  and  smile  mysteriously  to  ourselves. 

For  on  the  days  when  our  insanities  grow  somewhat  per- 

154 


sfstent  there  is  a  solace  in  the  spectacle  of  taxicabs  that  none 
of  the  advertisements  of  Mr.  Hertz  or  his  contemporaries  can 
take  away.  For  odds  bodkins!  gaze  you  through  the  little 
windows  of  these  taxicabs.  Pretty  gals  leaning  forward  eager- 
eyed,  lips  parted,  with  an  air  of  piquing  rendezvous  to  the 
parasols  clutched  in  their  dainty  hands.  Plump,  heavy-jowled 
dandies  reclining  like  tailored  paladins  in  the  leather  cushions. 
Keen-eyed  youths  surrounded  with  heaps  of  bags  and  cases  on 
a  carefully  linened  quest.  Nervous  old  women,  mysteriously 
ragged  creatures,  rakish  silk  hats,  bundles  of  children  with 
staring  fingers,  strangely  mustachioed  and  ribald-necked 
gentry. 

A  goodly  company.  A  teasing  procession  for  the  eye 
and  the  thought.  The  cabs  shoot  by,  caracoling  through  the 
orderly  lines  of  traffic;  zigzags  of  yellow,  green,  blue,  lavender, 
black  and  white  snorting  along  with  a  fine  disdain.  They  speak 
of  destinations  reminiscent  of  the  postern  gate  and  the  lat 
ticed  window;  of  the  waiting  barque  and  the  glowing  tavern. 

Of  the  crowds  on  the  pavements;  of  the  crowds  in  the 
passenger  cars,  elevators,  lobbies,  one  wonders  little  where 
they  are  going.  Answering  advertisements,  forsooth.  Verte 
brate  brothers  of  the  codfish.  But  these  others!  Ah,  one 
stands  on  the  curb  with  the  vanilla  phosphate  playing  havoc 
with  one's  blood  and  wonders  a  hatful. 

These  sybarites  of  the  taxis  are  going  somewhere.  Make 
no  doubt  of  that.  These  insanely  assorted  creatures  bouncing 
on  the  leather  cushions  are  launched  upon  mysterious  and  im 
portant  enterprises.  And  these  bold-looking  jehus,  black  eyed, 
hard  mouthed — a  fetching  tribe!  A  cross  between  Acrocerau- 
nian  bandits  and  Samaritans.  One  may  stare  at  a  taxi  scooting 
by  and  think  with  no  incongruity  of  Carlyle's  "Night  of  Spurs** 
— with  Louis  and  his  harried  Antoinette  flying  the  guillotine. 
And  of  other  things  which  our  inefficient  memory  prevents  us 
from  jotting  down  at  this  moment.  But  of  other  things. 

Journalism  is  incomplete  without  its  moral  or  at  least  its 

155 


overtones  of  morals.  And  we  come  to  that  now  as  an  honest 
reporter  should.  Our  moral  is  very  simple.  Any  good  plati 
tudinarian  will  already  have  forestalled  it.  It  is  that  the  goodly 
company  riding  about  in  these  taxicabs  upon  which  we  have 
been  speculating  are  none  other  than  these  codfish  of  the  pave 
ments.  The  same,  messieurs.  A  fact  which  gives  us  hope; 
briefly,  hope  for  the  fact  that  the  world  is  not  as  sane  as  it 
looks  and  that,  despite  all  the  fine  strivings  of  construction 
engineers,  plumbers,  advertisers  and  the  like,  men  and  women 
still  preserve  the  quaint  spirit  of  disorder  and  melodrama  which 
once  lived  in  the  ornaments  of  the  town. 


THE  WATCH  FIXER 

The  wooden  counter  in  front  of  Gustave  is  littered  with 
tiny  pieces  of  spring,  tiny  keys,  almost  invisible  screws  and 
odd-looking  tools.  Gustave  himself  is  a  large  man  with  pon 
derous  eyebrows  and  a  thick  nose.  He  stands  behind  his 
counter  in  the  North  Wells  Street  repair  shop  looking  much 
too  large  for  the  store  itself  and  grotesquely  out  of  propor 
tion  with  the  springs,  keys,  screws  and  miniature  tools  before 
him. 

Attached  to  Gustave' s  right  eye  is  a  microscope.  It  is 
fastened  on  by  aid  of  straps  round  his  large  head.  When  he 
works  he  moves  the  instrument  over  his  eye  and  when  he  rests 
he  raises  it  so  that  it  sticks  out  of  his  eyebrow. 

Gustave  is  a  watchmaker.  When  he  was  young  he  made 
watches  of  curious  design.  But  for  years  he  has  had  to  content 
himself  with  repairing  watches.  Incased  in  his  old-fashioned 
leather  apron  that  hangs  from  his  shoulders,  the  venerable 
and  somewhat  Gargantuan  Gustave  stands  most  of  the  day 
peering  into  the  tiny  mechanisms  of  watches  brought  into  the 
old  furniture  shop.  Gustave's  partner  is  responsible  for  the 
furniture  end  of  the  business.  As  Gustave  grows  older  he 
seems  to  lose  interest  in  things  that  do  not  pertain  to  the  deli 
cate  intricacies  of  watches. 

I  had  a  watch  that  was  being  fixed.  Gustave  said  it  would 
be  ready  in  a  half-hour.  He  slipped  the  microscope  over  his 
eye  and,  bending  in  his  heavy  round-shouldered  way  above 
the  small  watch,  began  to  pry  with  his  thick  fingers.  A  pair  of 
tiny  pincers,  a  fragile-looking  screwdriver  and  a  set  of  things 
that  looked  like  dolls*  tools  occupied  him. 

We  talked,  Gustave  answering  and  evading  questions  and 
offering  comments  as  he  worked. 

"Not  zo  hard  ven  you  ged  used  to  it,"  he  said.  "Und 
I  am  used  to  it.  Vatches  are  my  friends.  I  like  to  look  into 

157 


V     - 


dem  und  make  dem  go.  Yes,  I  have  been  vorking  on  vatches 
for  a  long  time.  Years  und  years. 

"No,  I  vas  vunce  in  the  manufagturing  business.  Long 
ago.  It  vas  ven  I  vas  married  und  had  children.  I  corne  over 
from  the  old  country  den  und  I  start  in.  Freddy  soon  ve  had 
money  to  spare.  Ve  came  oud  here  to  Chicago  und  got  a 
house.  A  very  nice  house. 

"My  vife  was  a  danzer  in  the  old  country.  Maybe  you 
have  heard  of  her.  But  never  mind.  I  had  dis  vatch  factory 
over  here  by  the  river.  Dat  vas  thirty  years  ago.  Und  ve 
had  a  barn  und  horses. 

"But  you  know  how  it  is!  Vat  you  have  today  you  don't 
have  tomorrow.  Not  so  ?  My  vife  first.  The  nice  house  und 
the  children  vasn't  enough  for  her.  She  must  danze  also.  I 
vas  younger  und  my  head  vas  harder  den.  Und  I  said,  'No.* 
Alzo  she  vent  avay.  Yes,  she  vent  avay.  Und  der  vas  two 
kids.  My  youngest  a  girl  und  my  oldest  a  boy." 

The  microscope  fastened  itself  closely  to  the  inanimate 
springs  and  keys  and  screws.  Gustave's  thick  fingers  reached 
for  a  pair  of  baby  pincers.  And  he  continued  now  without  the 
aid  of  questions  in  a  low,  gutteral  voice: 

"Veil,  business  got  bad  und  I  gave  up  the  factory.  Und 
I  starded  in  someding  else.  Den  my  youngest  she  died.  Yes, 
dat's  how  it  goes.  First  vun  ding  und  den  anoder  ding.  Und 
preddy  soon  you  have  nodings. 

"I  tried  to  find  my  vife,  but  she  vas  hiding  from  me. 
Perhaps  I  vas  hard  headed  in  dem  days.  Ven  you  are  young 
you  are  like  dat.  Now  id  is  difFrend.  She  iss  dead  und  I  am 
alive.  Und  if  she  had  been  my  vife  righd  along  she  vould 
still  be  dead  now.  Alzo  vat  matter  does  it  make? 

"Dat  vas  maybe  tventy  years  ago  or  maybe  more.  Maybe 
tventy-five  years  ago.  Dings  got  all  mixed  up  and  my  busi 
nesses  got  vorse  und  vorse.  Und  den  my  son  ran  avay  und 
wrides  me  he  become  a  sailor.  So  I  vas  alone." 

"Dis  vatch,"  sighed  Gustave,  "is  very  hard  to  figx.  It 
iss  an  old  vatch  und  not  much  good  to  begin  vit.  But  I  figx 

158 


him.  Vat  vas  ve  talking  aboud?  Oh,  my  business.  Yes, 
yes.  It  goes  like  dat.  I  don't  hear  from  my  vife  und  I  don't 
hear  from  my  son.  Und  my  liddle  vun  iss  dead.  Und  so  I 
lose  my  fine  house  und  the  horses  und  everyding. 

"Freddy  soon  I  got  no  job  even  und  preddy  soon  I  am 
almost  a  bum.  I  hang  around  saloons  und  drink  beer  und  do 
noding  but  spend  a  little  money  I  pick  up  now  un  den  by  doing 
liddle  jobs.  Ah,  now  I  have  it.  It  vas  de  liddle  spring.  See? 
Zo.  Most  of  dese  vatches  iss  no  good  vatsoever.  Dey  make 
vatches  difFrend  now  as  dey  used  to.  Chust  vun  minute  or 
two  more  und  I  have  him  figxed  so  he  don'd  break  no  more 
for  a  vile.  Und  vat  vas  ve  talking  aboud? 

"Ah,  yes.  Aboud  how  I  drink  beer  und  vas  a  bum. 
Dat' s  how  it  goes.  Ven  you  are  young  you  have  less  sense 
den  ven  you  are  old.  Und  I  used  to  go  around  thinking  I  vould 
commit  suicide.  Yes,  at  night  ven  I  vas  all  alone  I  used  to 
think  like  dat.  Everyding  vas  so  oopside  down  und  so  inside 
oud.  Vat's  de  use  of  living  und  vy  go  on  drinking  beer  und 
becoming  a  vorse  und  bigger  bum? 

"Yes,  it  goes  like  dat.  Ven  I  vas  rich  und  happy  und  had 
my  factory  und  my  vife  und  children  und  horses  und  fine 
house  I  used  to  think  vat  a  fine  place  the  vorld  vas  und  how 
simple  it  vas  to  be  happy.  Und  den  ven  everyding  vent  avay 
I  vas  chust  as  big  a  fool  und  I  used  to  think  how  terrible  the 
vorld  vas  und  how  unhappiness  vas  all  you  could  get 

"Yes,  ten  years  ago,  it  vas.  I  started  in  again.  I  started 
in  on  vatches  again.  I  got  a  job  figxing  vatches  und  a  friend 
says  he  vould  give  me  a  chance.  Und  here  I  am.  Still  figxing 
vatches.  Dey  are  my  friends.  Inside  dey  are  all  broken.  Dey 
have  liddle  tings  wrong  vid  dem  und  are  inside  oud  und 
oopside  down  und  I  figx  dem. 

"I  don'  know  vy,  but  figxing  vatches  made  a  new  man 
from  me.  I  don*  think  no  more  aboud  my  troubles  und  how 
oopside  down  and  impozzible  everyding  is.  But  I  look  all 
de  time  into  vatches  und  make  dem  go  again.  Yes,  it  iss 

159 


like  you  say,  a  delicate  business,  und  my  fingers  iss  getting 
old  for  it,  maybe.  But  I  like  dese  liddle  tools  und  all  dese  lid- 
die  things  aboud  a  vatch  I  like  to  look  at  und  hold  und  figx  up. 

"Because  it  iss  so  simple.  Ezpecially  ven  you  get 
acquainted  vid  how  dey  run  und  vy  dey  stop.  Und  der  are 
zo  many  busted  vatches.  Zo  nice  outside  und  zo  busted  inside. 
I  can'd  explain  maybe  how  it  iss.  But  it  iss  like  dat.  Ven  I 
hold  de  busted  vatches  under  the  micgrozcope,  I  feel  happy 
I  don*  know.  Some  time  maybe  somebody  pick  me  up  like  I 
vas  a  busted  vatch  und  hold  me  under  a  micgrozcope  und  figx 
me  up  until  I  go  tick  tick  again.  Maybe  dat's  vy.  Here.  All 
done." 

Gustave  shifted  the  microscope  up  over  his  eyebrow  and 
smiled  ponderously  across  the  counter. 

"Put  it  on,"  he  said,  "but  be  careful.  Dat's  how  vatches 
iss  busted  alvays.  By  bumping  und  paying  no  attention  to 
dem." 


SCHOPENHAUER'S  SON 


Life,  alas,  is  an  intricate  illusion.  God  is  a  pack  of  lies 
under  which  man  staggers  to  his  grave.  And  man — ah,  here 
we  have  Nature's  only  mountebank;  here  we  have  Nature's 
humorous  and  ingenuous  experiment  in  tragedy.  And  thought 
— ah,  the  tissue-paper  chimera  that  seeks  forever  to  devour  life. 

It  is  the  cult  of  the  pessimist,  the  gentle  malice  of  dis 
illusion.  And,  like  all  other  cults,  it  sustains  its  advocates. 
Thus,  the  city  has  no  more  debonairly-mannered,  smiling- 
souled  citizen  to  offer  than  Clarence  Darrow.  For  years  and 
years  Mr.  Darrow  has  been  gently  disproving  the  intelligence 
of  man,  the  importance  of  life,  and  the  necessity  of  thought. 
For  years  and  years  Mr.  Darrow  has  been  whimsically  deflating 
the  illusions  in  which  man  hides  from  the  purposelessness  of 
the  cosmos.  God,  heaven,  politics,  philosophies,  ambition, 
love — Mr.  Darrow  has  deflated  them  time  and  again— charg 
ing  from  $1  to  $2  a  seat  for  the  spectacle. 

This  is  nothing  against  Mr.  Darrow — that  he  charges 
money  sometimes.  For  years  and  years  Mr.  Darrow  has  been 
enlivening  the  intellectual  purlieus  of  the  city  with  his  debates. 
And  Mr.  Darrow's  debates  have  been  always  worth  $1,  $2 
and  even  $5 — for  various  reasons.  It  is  worth  at  least  $5  to 
observe  at  first  hand  what  a  cheering  and  invigorating  effect 
Mr.  Darrow's  pessimism  has  had  upon  Mr.  Darrow  after  these 
innumerable  years. 

The  story  concerns  itself  with  a  funeral  Mr.  Darrow 
attended  a  few  years  ago.  It  is  at  funerals  that  Mr.  Darrow's 
gentle  malice  finds  itself  crowned  by  circumstances.  For  to 
this  son  of  Schopenhauer  death  is  a  weary  smile  that  is  proof 
of  all  his  arguments. 

This  time,  however,  Mr  Darrow  was  curiously  stirred. 
For  there  lay  dead  in  the  coffin  a  man  for  whom  he  had  held 
a  deep  affection.  It  was  Prof.  George  B.  Foster,  the  brilliant 
theologian  of  the  University  of  Chicago. 

161 


During  his  life  Prof.  Foster  had  been  a  man  worthy  the 
steel  of  Mr.  Darrow.  Not  that  Prof.  Foster  was  an  unscrup 
ulous  optimist.  He  was  merely  an  intellectual  whose  congen 
ital  tendencies  were  idealistic,  just  as  Mr.  Darrow's  psychic 
and  subconscious  tendencies  were  anti-idealistic.  And  apart 
from  this  divergence  of  congenital  tendencies  Mr.  Darrow  and 
Prof.  Foster  had  a  great  deal  in  common.  They  both  loved 
argument  They  both  doted  upon  seizing  an  idea  and  ener 
gizing  it  with  their  egoism.  They  were,  in  short,  ideal  debaters. 

Whenever  Mr.  Darrow  and  Prof.  Foster  debated  on 
one  of  the  major  issues  of  reason  a  flutter  made  itself  felt  in 
the  city— even  among  citizens  indifferent  to  debate.  Indifferent 
or  not,  one  felt  that  a  debate  between  Prof.  Foster  and  Mr. 
Darrow  was  a  matter  of  considerable  importance.  Things 
might  be  disproved  or  proved  on  such  an  occasion. 

They  were  to  have  debated  on  *'Is  There  Immortality?'* 
when  Prof.  Foster's  death  canceled  the  engagement.  This  was 
one  of  the  favorite  differences  of  opinion  between  the  two 
friends.  Mr.  Darrow,  of  course,  bent  all  his  efforts  on  dis 
proving  immortality.  Prof.  Foster  bent  all  his  on  proving  it. 
Considerable  excitement  nad  been  stirred  by  the  coming 
debate.  The  death  of  the  brilliant  theologian  put  an  end  to  it. 

Instead  of  the  debate  there  was  a  funeral.  Thousands 
of  people  who  had  admired  the  intellect,  kindness  and  human- 
itarianism  of  Prof.  Foster  came  to  the  memorial  services  held 
in  one  of  the  large  theaters  of  the  loop.  Mr.  Darrow  came, 
his  head  bowed  and  grief  in  his  heart.  Friends  like  George 
Foster  never  replace  themselves.  Death  becomes  not  a  trium 
phant  argument — an  aloof  clincher  for  pessimism,  but  a  robber. 

There  were  speakers  who  talked  of  the  dead  man's  virtues, 
his  love  for  people,  scholarship  and  the  arts,  his  keen  brain 
and  his  genius.  Mr.  Darrow  sat  listening  to  the  eulogy  of  his 
dead  friend  and  tears  filled  his  eyes.  Poor  George  Foster — 
gone,  in  a  coffin;  to  be  buried  out  of  sight  in  a  few  hours. 

162 


Then  some  one  whispered  to  Mr.  Darrow  that  a  few  words 
were  expected  of  him. 

It  was  Mr.  Darrow' s  good-bye  to  his  dear  friend.  He  stood 
up  and  his  loose  figure  and  slyly  malicious  face  wore  an  unac 
customed  seriousness.  The  audience  waited,  but  the  facile 
Mr.  Darrow  was  having  difficulty  locating  his  voice,  his  words. 
His  eyes,  blurred  with  tears,  were  still  staring  at  the  coffin. 
Finally  Mr.  Darrow  began.  His  dear  friend.  Dead.  So 
charming  a  man.  So  brilliant  a  mind.  Dead  now.  He  had 
been  so  amazingly  alive  it  seemed  incredible  that  he  should  be 
dead.  It  was  as  if  part  of  himself — Mr.  Darrow — lay  in  the 
coffin. 

The  eulogy  continued,  quiet,  sincere,  stirring  tears  in  the 
audience  and  filling  their  hearts  with  a  realization  of  the  grief 
that  lay  in  Mr.  Darrow' s  heart.  Then  slowly  the  phrases  grew 
clearer. 

"We  were  old  friends  and  we  fought  many  battles  of  the 
mind,**  said  Mr.  Darrow.  "And  we  were  to  have  debated  once 
more  next  week — on  *Is  There  Immortality?'  It  was  his  con 
tention,"  whispered  Mr.  Darrow,  "that  there  is  immortality. 
He  is  gone  now,  but  he  speaks  mofe  eloquently  on  the  subject 
than  if  he  were  still  with  us.  There  lies  all  that  remains  of  my 
friend  George  Burman  Foster — in  a  coffin.  And  had  he  lived 
he  would  have  argued  with  me  on  the  subject.  But  he  is 
dead  and  he  knows  now,  in  the  negation  and  darkness  of 
death,  that  he  was  wrong — that  there  is  no  immortality — " 

Mr.  Darrow  paused.  He  had  after  many  years  won  his 
argument  with  Prof.  Foster.  But  the  victory  brought  no  ela 
tion.  Mr.  Darrow' s  eyes  filled  again  and  he  turned  to  walk 
from  the  stage.  But  before  he  left  the  mourners  sitting  around 
him  heard  him  murmur: 

"I  wish  poor  George  Foster  had  been  right.  There  would 
be  nobody  happier  than  I  to  realize  that  his  soul  had  survived 
— that  there  was  still  a  George  Foster.  But — if  he  could  come 

163 


back  now  after  the  proof  of  death  he  would  admit — yes,  admit 
that — that  there  is  no  immortality." 

And  Mr.  Darrow  with  his  head  bowed  yielded  the  plat 
form  to  his  inarticulate  and  vanquished  friend  and  debater. 


WORLD  CONQUERORS 

The  hall  is  upstairs.  A  non-committal  sign  has  been 
tacked  over  the  street  entrance.  It  discloses  that  there  is  to 
be  a  discussion  this  night  on  the  subject  of  the  world  revolu 
tion.  The  disclosure  is  made  in  English,  Yiddish  and  Russian. 

A  thousand  people  have  arrived.  They  are  mostly  west 
siders,  with  a  sprinkling  of  north  and  south  side  residents. 
There  seem  to  be  two  types.  Shop  workers  and  a  type  that 
classifies  as  the  intelligentsia.  The  workers  sit  calmly  and 
smoke.  The  intelligentsia  are  nervous.  Dark-eyed  women, 
bearded  men,  vivacious,  exchanging  greetings,  cracking  jokes. 

The  first  speaker  is  a  very  bad  orator.  He  is  a  working- 
man.  An  intensity  of  manner  holds  the  audience  in  lieu  of 
phrases.  He  says  nothing.  Yet  every  one  listens.  He  says 
that  workingmen  have  been  slaves  long  enough.  That  there 
is  injustice  in  the  world.  That  the  light  of  freedom  has 
appeared  on  the  horizon. 

This,  to  the  audience,  is  old  stuff.  Yet  they  watch  the 
talker.  He  has  something  they  one  and  all  treasured  in  their 
own  hearts.  A  faith  in  something.  The  workingmen  in  the  audi 
ence  have  stopped  smoking.  They  listen  with  a  faint  skepti 
cism  in  their  eyes.  The  intelligentsia,  however,  are  warming 
up.  For  the  moment  old  emotions  are  stirring  in  them. 
Sincerity  in  others — the  martyr  spirit  in  others — is  something 
which  thrills  the  insincerity  of  all  intelligentsia. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  change  in  the  hall.  Our  stuttering 
orator  with  the  forceful  manner  has  made  a  few  startling  re 
marks.  He  has  said,  "And  what  we  must  do,  comrades,  is 
to  use  force.  We  can  get  nowhere  without  force.  We  must 
uproot,  overthrow  and  seize  the  government.** 

Scandal!  A  murmur  races  around  the  hall.  The  resi 
dents  from  the  north  and  south  sides  who  have  favored  this 
discussion  of  world  revolution  with  their  uplifting  presence 
are  uneasy.  Somebody  should  stop  the  man.  It's  one  thing 

165 


to  be  sincere,  and  another  thing  to  be  too  sincere  and  tell 
them  that  they  should  use  force. 

Now,  what's  the  matter?  The  orator  has  grown  violent. 
It  is  somebody  in  the  back  of  the  hall.  Heads  turn.  A  police 
man!  The  orator  swings  his  arms,  and  in  his  foreign  tongue, 
goes  on.  "They  are  stopping  us.  The  bourgeoisie!  They 
have  sent  the  po/fzei/  But  we  stand  firm.  The  police  are 
powerless  against  us.  Even  though  they  drive  us  from  this 
hall/' 

The  orator  is  all  alone  in  his  excitement.  The  audience 
has,  despite  his  valorous  pronouncements,  grown  nervous. 
And  the  policeman  walking  down  the  aisle  seems  embarrassed. 
He  arrives  at  the  platform  finally.  He  hands  a  card  to  the 
orator.  The  orator  glances  at  the  card  and  then  waves  it  in 
the  air.  Then  he  reads  it  slowly,  his  lips  moving  as  he  spells 
the  words  out.  The  audience  is  shifting  around,  acting  as  if 
it  wanted  to  rise  and  bolt  for  the  door. 

"Ah,"  exclaims  the  orator,  "the  policeman  says  that  an 
enemy  of  the  revolution  has  smashed  an  automobile  belonging 
to  one  of  the  audience  that  was  standing  in  front  of  the  hall. 
The  number  of  the  automobile  is  as  follows/*  He  recites  the 
number  slowly.  And  then:  "If  anybody  has  an  automobile 
by  that  number  standing  downstairs  he  better  go  and  look 
after  it" 

A  substantial  looking  north  sider  arises  and  walks  hur 
riedly  through  the  hall.  The  orator  decides  to  subside.  There 
is  a  wait  for  the  chief  speaker,  who  has  not  yet  arrived.  During 
the  wait  an  incident  develops.  There  are  two  lights  burning 
at  the  rear  of  the  stage.  A  young  woman  calls  one  of  the 
officials  of  the  meeting. 

"Look,"  she  says,  "those  lights  make  it  impossible  for 
us  to  see  the  speaker  who  stands  in  front  of  them.  They  shine 
in  our  eyes." 

The  official  wears  a  red  sash  across  the  front  of  his  coat. 
He  is  one  of  the  minor  leaders  among  the  west  side  soviet 
radicals.  He  blinks.  "What  do  you  want  of  me?"  he  inquires 

1 66 


with  indignation.  "I  should  go  and  turn  the  lights  out?  You 
think  I'm  the  janitor?'* 

"But  can't  you  just  turn  the  lights  off?'*  persists  the  young 
woman. 

"The  janitor,"  announces  our  official  with  dignity,  "turns 
the  lights  on  and  he  will  turn  them  off.'*  Wherewith  the  Tar- 
quin  of  the  proletaire  marches  off.  Two  minutes  later  a  man 
in  his  short  sleeves  appears,  following  him.  This  man  is  the 
janitor.  The  audience  which  has  observed  this  little  comedy 
begins  to  laugh  as  the  janitor  turns  off  the  offending  lights. 

The  chief  speaker  of  the  evening  has  arrived.  He  is  a 
good  orator.  He  is  also  cynical  of  his  audience.  A  short  wiry 
man  with  a  pugnacious  face  and  a  cocksure  mustache.  He 
begins  by  asking  what  they  are  all  afraid  of.  He  accuses 
them  of  being  more  social  than  revolutionary.  As  long  as 
revolution  was  the  thing  of  the  hour  they  were  revolutionists. 
But  now  that  it  is  no  longer  the  thing  of  the  hour,  they  have 
taken  up  other  hobbies. 

This  appears  to  be  rather  the  truth  from  the  way  the 
intelligentsia  take  it.  They  nod  approval.  Self-indictment  is 
one  thing  which  distinguishes  the  intelligentsia.  They  are  able 
to  recognize  their  faults,  their  shortcomings. 

Now  the  speaker  is  on  his  real  subject.  Revolution. 
What  we  want,  he  cries,  is  for  the  same  terrible  misfortune 
to  happen  in  this  country  that  happened  in  Russia.  Yes,  the 
same  marvelous  misfortune.  And  he  is  ready.  He  is  working 
toward  that  end.  And  he  wishes  in  all  sincerity  that  the  audi 
ence  would  work  with  him.  Start  a  reign  of  terror.  Put  the 
spirit  of  the  masses  into  the  day.  The  unconquerable  will  to 
overthrow  the  tyrant  and  govern  themselves,  He  continues — 
an  apostle  of  force.  Of  fighting.  Of  shooting,  stabbing  and 
barricades  that  fly  the  red  flag.  He  is  sardonic  and  sarcastic 
and  everything  else.  And  the  audience  is  disturbed. 

There  are  whispers  of  scandal.  And  half  the  faces  of 
the  intelligentsia  frown  in  disapproval.  They  came  to  hoar 

167 


economic  argument,  not  a  call  to  arms.  The  other  half  is 
stirred. 

It  is  almost  eleven.  The  hall  empties.  The  streets  are 
alive.  People  hurry,  saunter,  stand  laughing.  Street  cars, 
store  fronts,  mean  houses,  shadows  and  a  friendly  moon.  These 
are  part  of  the  system.  Three  hours  ago  they  seemed  a  pow 
erful,  impregnable  symbol.  Now  they  can  be  overthrown. 
The  security  that  pervades  the  street  is  an  illusion.  Force  can 
knock  it  out.  A  strange  force  that  lies  in  the  masses  who 
live  in  this  street. 

The  audience  moves  away.  The  intelligentsia  will  dis 
cuss  the  possibility  of  a  sudden  uprising  of  the  proletaire  and 
gradually  they  will  grow  cynical  about  it  and  say,  "Well,  he 
was  a  good  talker." 

The  orator  finally  emerges  from  the  building.  He  is  sur 
rounded  by  friends,  questioners.  For  two  blocks  he  has  com 
pany.  Then  he  is  alone.  He  stands  waiting  for  a  street  car. 
Some  of  the  audience  pass  by  without  recognizing  him. 

The  street  car  comes  and  the  orator  gets  on.  He  finds  a 
seat  His  head  drops  against  the  window  and  his  eyes  close. 
And  the  car  sweeps  away,  taking  with  it  its  load  of  sleepy 
men  and  women  who  have  stayed  up  too  late — including  a 
messiah  of  the  proletaire  who  dreams  of  leading  the  masses 
out  of  bondage. 


THE  MAN  FROM  YESTERDAY 

"You'll  not  use  my  name,"  he  said,  "because  my  family 
would  be  exceedingly  grieved  over  the  notoriety  the  thing 
would  bring  them." 

Fifty  or  sixty  or  seventy — it  was  hard  to  tell  how  old 
he  was.  He  looked  like  a  panhandler  and  talked  like  a  scholar. 
Life  had  knocked  him  out  and  walked  over  him.  There  was 
no  money  in  his  pocket,  no  food  in  his  stomach,  no  hope  in 
his  heart.  He  was  asking  for  a  job — some  kind  of  writing 
job.  His  hands  were  trembling  and  his  face  twitched.  Despair 
underlay  his  words,  but  he  kept  it  under.  Hunger  made  his 
body  jerked  and  his  eyes  shine  with  an  unmannerly  eagerness. 
But  his  words  remained  suave.  He  removed  a  pair  of  cracked 
nose-glasses  and  held  them  between  his  thumb  and  forefinger 
and  gestured  politely  with  them.  Hungry,  dirty,  hopeless, 
his  linen  gone,  his  shoes  torn,  something  inside  his  beaten 
frame  remained  still  intact.  There  was  no  future.  But  he 
had  a  past  to  live  up  to. 

He  was  asking  for  a  job.  What  kind  of  job  he  didn't 
know.  But  he  could  write.  He  had  been  around  the  world. 
He  was  a  cosmopolite  and  a  rhymester  and  a  press  agent  and 
a  journalist.  He  pulled  himself  together  and  his  eyes  struggled 
hard  to  forget  the  hunger  of  his  stomach. 

"In  the  old  days,"  he  said,  enunciating  in  the  oracular 
manner  of  a  day  gone  by — "ah,  I  was  talking  with  Jack 
London  about  it  before  he  died.  Dear  Jack  I  A  great  soul.  A 
marvelous  spirit.  We  were  in  the  south  seas  together.  Yes, 
the  old  days  were  different.  Erudition  counted  for  something. 
I  was  Buffalo  Bill's  first  press  agent.  Also  I  worked  for  dear 
P.  T.  Barnum.  I  was  his  publicity  man. 

"Doesn't  the  world  seem  to  have  changed,  to  you?"  he 
asked.  "I  was  talking  to  George  Ade  about  this  very  thing. 
Strange,  isn't  it?  George  and  I  are  old  friends.  Who? 
Dickie  Davis  of  the  Sun?  Certainly — a  charming  fellow. 
Stephen  Crane?  Genius,  my  friend,  genius  was  his.  That  was 

169 


the  day  when  O.  Henry  was  in  New  York.  There  was  quite 
a  crowd  of  us.  We  used  to  foregather  in  some  comfortable 
grog  shop  and  discuss.  Ah,  life  and  letters  were  talked  about 
a  great  deal  in  those  days." 

His  voice  had  the  sound  of  a  man  casually  relating  inci 
dents  of  his  past.  But  his  eyes  continued  to  shine  eagerly. 
And  between  sentences  there  were  curious  pauses.  The  pauses 
asked  something. 

"A  most  curious  thing  occurred  the  other  evening, "  he 
smiled.  **I  had  to  pay  for  my  oysters  by  writing  a  rhyme  for 
the  waiter.  An  anecdote  by  a  dilettante,  a  gracefully  turned 
plea  worthy  of  M'sieur  Bruimmell.  "You  know,  it  grows  more 
and  more  difficult  to  obtain  employment.  My  wardrobe  is 
practically  gone.'*  He  glanced  with  apparent  amusement  at 
his  weary-willie  makeup.  His  hand  moved  tremblingly  to  his 
neck.  "My  collar  is  soiled,"  he  murmured,  apologizing  with 
eyes  that  managed  to  smile,  "and  the  other  evening  I  lost  my 
stick." 

Then  the  hunger  and  the  hopelessness  of  the  man  broke 
through  the  shell  of  his  manner.  He  needed  a  job,  a  job,  a  job! 
Something  to  do  to  get  him  food  and  shelter.  His  fingers 
tried  to  place  the  cracked  nose-glasses  back  in  position. 

"I  would — pardon  me  for  mentioning  this — I  would  much 
rather  sit  with  a  man  like  you  and  discuss  the  phases  of  life 
and  literature  of  interest  to  both  of  us.  But  I  would  write 
almost  anything.  I  have  written  a  great  deal.  And  I  have 
managed  money.  There  was  a  time — "  A  look  of  pain  came 
into  his  eyes.  This  was  being  vulgar  and  not  in  line  with  the 
tradition  that  his  enunciation  boasted. 

"I  have  known  a  great  many  people.  I  don't  desire  to 
bore  you  with  talk  of  celebrities  and  all  that.  But  I  assure 
you,  I  have  been  somebody.  Oh,  nothing  important  or  per 
haps  very  worth  while.  I  dislike  this  sort  of  thing,  you  know." 
Another  smile  twisted  his  lips.  "But,  when  one  is  down  to 
the  last — er — to  the  last  farthing,  so  to  speak,  one  swallows 

170 


a  bit  of  his  pride.  That's  more  than  an  aphorism  with  me.  To 
go  on,  I  have  handled  great  sums  of  money.  I  have  traveled 
all  over  the  world,  I  have  eaten  and  spoken  with  men  of  genius 
all  my  life.  My  youth  was  a  very  interesting  one  and — and 
perhaps  we  could  go  somewhere  for  dinner  and — and  I  could 
tell  you  things  of  writing  men  of  the  past  that — that  might 
appeal  to  you.  Marvelous  fellows.  There  was  O.  Henry  and 
London  and  Davis  and  Phillips  and  Stevie  Crane.  I  dislike 
imposing  myself  on  you  this  way,  but — if  I  didn't  think  you 
would  be  interested  in  a  discussion  with  a  man  who — who 
admires  the  beautiful  things  of  life  and  who  has  lived  a  rather 
varied  existence  I  would  not — " 

The  cracked  nose-glasses  were  back  in  place  and  he  had 
stopped  short.  Despair  and  hunger  now  were  talking  out  of 
his  eyes.  They  had  come  too  close  to  his  words.  They  must 
never  come  into  his  words.  That  would  be  the  one  defeat 
that  would  drive  too  deeply  into  him.  Of  the  past,  of  the  easy 
going,  charmingly  garrulous  past,  all  that  was  left  to  this  nomad 
of  letters  was  its  manner.  He  could  still  sit  in  his  rags  as  if 
he  were  lounging  in  the  salon  of  an  ocean  liner,  still  gesture 
with  his  nose-glasses  as  if  he  were  fixing  the  attention  of  a 
Richard  Harding  Davis  across  a  bottle  of  Chateau  Yquem. 

So  he  remained  silent.  Let  his  eyes  and  the  twitching  of 
his  face  betray  him.  His  words  never  would.  His  words 
would  always  be  the  well-groomed,  carefully  modulated,  nicely 
considerate  words  of  a  gentleman.  He  resumed: 

"So  you  have  nothing.  Ah,  that's  rather — rather  dis 
turbing.  Just  a  moment — please.  I  don't  mean  to  impose  on 
you.  Won't  you  sit  down — so  I  will  feel  more  at  ease?  Thank 
you,  sir.  Perhaps  there  is  something  in  the  way  of  a — of 
another  kind  of  job.  Anything  about  a  theater,  a  newspaper 
office,  a  magazine,  a  circus,  an  hotel.  I  know  them  all.  And 
if  you  could  only  keep  an  eye  open  for  me.  Thank  you,  sir. 
I  am  glad  to  see  that  men  of  letters  are  still  considerate  of  their 
fellow  craftsmen.  Ah,  you  would  have  liked  Jack  London. 

171 


Did  you  know  him?  You  know,  we  live  in  an  age  of  jazz. 
Yes,  sir,  the  tempo  is  fast.  Life  has  lost  its  andante.  Mate 
rialism  has  triumphed.  There  is  no  longer  room  for  the  spirit 
to  expand.  Machines  are  in  the  way.  Noises  invade  the 
sanctity  of  meditative  hours." 

It  was  cold  outside  the  cigar  store.  The  man  from  yes 
terday  stepped  into  the  street.  He  stood  smiling  for  a  moment 
and  for  the  moment  in  the  courteous  friendliness  of  his  rheumy 
eyes,  in  the  mannerly  tilt  of  his  head  there  was  the  picture  of 
a  sophisticated  gentleman  of  the  world  nodding  an  adieu  out 
side  his  favorite  chophouse.  Then  he  turned.  The  mannerly 
tilt  vanished.  There  was  to  be  seen  a  man — fifty,  sixty  or 
seventy,  it  was  hard  to  tell  how  old — shuffling  tiredly  down 
the  street,  his  body  huddled  together  and  his  shoulders 
shivering. 


THUMBNAIL  LOTHARIOS 

Here's  the  low  down,  gentlemen.  The  Miserere  of  the 
manicurist.  Peewee,  the  Titian-haired  Aphrodite  of  the 
Thousand  Nails  has  been  inveigled  into  submitting  her  lip 
stick  memoirs  to  the  public  eye. 

Peewee  is  the  melting  little  lady  with  the  vermilion  mouth 
and  the  cooing  eyes  who  manicures  in  a  Rialto  hotel  barber 
shop.  She  is  the  one  whose  touch  is  like  the  cool  caress  of 
a  snowflake,  whose  face  is  as  void  of  guile  as  the  face  of  the 
Blessed  Damosel. 

There  are  others,  scissor-Salomes  and  nail-file  Dryads. 
Mr.  Flp  Ziegfeld  has  nothing  on  George,  the  head  barber, 
when  it  comes  to  an  eye  for  color  and  a  sense  for  curve.  But 
they  are  busy  at  the  moment.  The  hair-tonic  Dons  and  the 
mud-pack  Romeos  are  giving  the  girls  a  heavy  play.  Peewee 
alone  is  at  leisure.  Therefore  let  us  gallop  quickly  to  the 
memoirs. 

"H'm,"  says  Peewee,  "I'll  tell  you  about  men.  Of  course 
what  I  say  doesn't  include  all  men.  There  may  be  exceptions 
to  the  rule.  I  say  may  be.  I  hope  there  are.  I'd  hate  to 
think  there  weren't.  I'd  get  sad." 

Steady,  gentlemen.  Peewee's  doll  face  has  lost  guile- 
lessness.  Peewee's  face  has  taken  on  a  derisive  and  ominous 
air. 

"I'll  give  you  the  low  down,"  says  she  with  a  sniff. 
"Men?  They're  all  alike.  I  don't  care  who  they  are  or  what 
their  wives  and  pastors  think  of  them  or  what  their  mothers 
think  of  them.  I  got  them  pegged  regardless.  Young  and 
old,  and  some  of  them  so  old  they've  gone  back  to  the  milk 
diet,  they  all  make  the  same  play  when  they  come  in  here. 

"And  they're  all  cheap.  Yes,  sir,  some  are  cheaper  than 
others,  of  course.  There's  the  patent-leather  hair  lounge- 
lizard.  I  hand  him  the  fur-lined  medal  for  cheapness.  But 
I  got  a  lot  of  other  medals  and  I  give  them  all  away,  too. 

173 


"Well,  sir,  they  come  in  here  and  you  take  hold  of  their 
hand  and  start  in  doing  honest  work  and,  blooey!  they're  off. 
They're  strangers  in  town.  And  lonesome!  My  God,  how 
lonesome  they  are!  And  they  don't  know  no  place  to  go. 
That's  the  way  they  begin.  And  they  give  your  hand  a  squeeze 
and  roll  a  soft-boiled  eye  at  you. 

"Say,  it  gets  kind  of  tiring,  you  can  imagine.  Particularly 
after  you've  been  through  what  I  have  and  know  their  middle 
names,  which  are  all  alike,  they  all  answering  to  the  name  of 
cheap  sport.  Sometimes  I  give  them  the  baby  stare  and 
pretend  I  don't  know  what's  on  their  so-called  minds.  And 
sometimes  when  my  nerves  are  a  little  ragged  I  freeze  them. 
Then  sometimes  I  take  them  up.  I  let  them  put  it  over. 

"You'd  be  surprised.  Liars!  They're  all  rich.  The 
young  ones  are  all  bond  salesmen  with  wealthy  fathers  and 
going  to  inherit  soon.  The  middle-aged  ones  are  great  manu 
facturers.  The  old  ones  are  retired  financiers.  You  should 
ought  to  hear  the  lads  when  they're  hitting  on  all  six." 

Peewee  wagged  a  wise  old  head  and  her  vermilion  mouth 
registered  scorn  at  1 05  degrees  Fahrenheit.  A  very  cold  light, 
however,  kindled  in  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"Yes,  yes,  I've  taken  them  up,"  she  went  on.  "I've  let 
them  stake  me  to  the  swell  time.  Say,  ten  dollars  to  one  that 
these  manicured  millionaires  don't  mean  any  more  than  the 
Governor's  pardon  does  to  Carl  Wanderer.  Not  a  bit.  I 
don't  want  to  get  personal,  but,  take  it  from  me,  they're  all 
after  one  thing.  And  they're  a  pack  of  selfish,  mushy-headed 
tin  horns  with  fishhook  pockets,  the  kind  you  can't  pull  any 
thing  out  of. 

"Well,  to  get  back.  About  the  first  minute  you  get  the 
big,  come-on  squeeze.  Then  next  the  big  talk  about  being 
strangers  in  your  town.  Then  next  they  open  with  the  big, 
hearty  invitations.  Will  you  be  their  little  guide?  And  ain't 
you  the  most  beautiful  thing  they  ever  set  eyes  on!  And  say, 
if  they'd  only  met  you  before  they  wouldn't  be  living  around 


hotels  now,  lonesome  bachelors  without  a  friend.  I  forgot 
to  tell  you,  they're  all  single.  No,  never  married.  Even  some 
of  the  most  humpbacked  married  men  you  ever  saw,  who  come 
in  here  dragging  leg  irons  and  looking  a  picture  of  the  Common 
People,  they're  single,  too.  I've  seen  them  slip  wedding  rings 
off  their  fingers  to  make  their  racket  stand  up. 

"Then  after  they've  got  along  and  think  they've  got  you 
biting  they  begin  to  get  fresh.  They  tell  you  you  shouldn't 
ought  to  work  in  a  barber  shop,  a  girl  as  beautiful  as  you.  The 
surroundings  ain't  what  they  should  be.  And  they'd  like  to 
fix  you  up.  Yes,  they  begin  handing  out  their  castles  in  Rome 
or  Spain  or  whatever  it  is.  Cheap !  Say,  they  are  so  cheap  they 
wouldn't  go  on  the  5-  and  10-cent  store  counter. 

"Sometimes  you  can  shame  them  into  making  good  in 
a  small  way.  But  it's  too  much  work.  Oh,  yes,  they  give 
tips.  Fifty  cents  is  the  usual  tip.  Sometimes  they  make  it 
$2.00.  They  think  they're  buying  you,  though,  for  that. 

"As  I  was  saying,  the  patent-leather  hair  boys  are  the 
worst.  They're  the  ones  who  call  themselves  loop  hounds. 
They  know  everybody  by  their  first  name  and  sometimes 
they've  got  all  of  $6.50  in  their  pocket  at  one  time.  And  if 
you're  out  some  evening  with  a  friend — a  regular  fella,  they 
pop  in  the  next  day  and  say,  'Hello,  Peewee,  who  was  that 
street  sweeper  I  see  you  palling  with  last  night?  Oh,  he 
wasn't!  Well,  I  had  him  pegged  either  as  a  street  sweeper  or 
a  plumber!" 

"That's  their  speed.  And  they  come  again  and  again. 
They  never  give  up.  They've  got  visions  of  making  a  conquest 
some  day — on  $1.50.  And  when  a  new  girl  comes  into  the 
shop — boy,  don't  the  buzzards  btfzzt  I  came  here  six  months 
ago  and  they  started  it  on  me.  But  I  wasn't  born  yesterday. 
I'd  been  a  manicure  in  Indianapolis.  And  they're  just  the  same 
in  Indianapolis  as  they  are  in  Chicago.  And  they're  just  the 
same  in  Podunk. 

"Now,  I'm  not  going  to  mention  any  names.  But  take 

175 


your  city  directory  and  begin  with  Ab  Abner  and  go  right 
on  through  to  Zeke  Zimbo  and  don't  skip  any.  And  you'll 
get  a  clear  idea  about  the  particular  gentlemen  I'm  talking 
about/' 

Peewee  sighed  and  shook  her  head. 

"Are  you  busy?"  inquired  the  head  manicurist. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Peewee,  "not  at  all." 

Peewee' s  biographer  asked  a  final  question.  To  which 
she  responded  as  follows: 

"Well,  I'll  get  married.  Maybe.  When  I  find  the  excep 
tion  I  was  telling  you  about — the  gentleman  who  isn't  a 
stranger  in  town  and  in  need  of  a  little  guide.  There  must  be 
one  of  them  somewhere.  Unless  they  was  all  killed  in  the 
war." 


THE  SOUL  OF  SING  LEE 


The  years  have  made  a  cartoon  out  of  Sing  Lee.  A 
withered  yellow  face  with  motionless  black  eyes.  Thin  fingers 
that  move  with  lifeless  precision.  Slippered  feet  that  shuffle 
as  if  Sing  Lee  were  yawning. 

A  smell  of  starch,  wet  linen  and  steam  mingles  with  an 
aromatic  mustiness.  The  day's  work  is  done.  Sing  Lee  sits 
in  his  chair  behind  the  counter.  Three  walls  look  down  upon 
him.  Laundry  packages — yellow  paper,  white  string— crowd 
the  wall  shelves.  Chinese  letterings  dance  gayly  on  the  yellow 
packages. 

Sing  Lee,  from  behind  the  counter,  stares  out  of  the 
window.  The  Hyde  Park  police  station  is  across  the  way. 
People  pass  and  glance  up: 

Sing  Lee,  Hand  Laundry, 
5222  Lake  Park  Avenue. 

Come  in.  There  is  something  immaculate  about  Sing 
Lee.  Sing  Lee  has  been  ironing  out  collars  and  shirts  for 
thirty-five  years.  And  thirty-five  years  have  been  ironing  Sing 
Lee  out.  He  is  like  one  of  the  yellow  packages  on  the  shelves. 
And  there  is  a  certain  lettering  across  his  face  as  indecipherable 
and  strange  as  the  dance  of  the  black  hieroglyphs  on  the  yellow 
laundry  paper. 

Something  enthralls  Sing  Lee.  It  can  be  seen  plainly 
now  as  he  sits  behind  the  counter.  It  can  be  seen,  too,  as  he 
works  during  the  day.  Sing  Lee  works  like  a  man  in  an  empty 
dream.  It  is  the  same  to  Sing  Lee  whether  he  works  or  sits 
still. 

The  world  of  collars,  cuffs  and  shirt  fronts  does  not  con 
tain  Sing  Lee.  It  contains  merely  an  automaton.  The  laundry 
is  owned  by  an  automaton  named  Sing  Lee,  by  nobody  else. 
Now  that  the  day's  work  is  done  he  will  sit  like  this  for  an 
hour,  two  hours,  five  hours.  Time  is  not  a  matter  of  hours 
to  Sing  Lee.  Or  of  days.  Or  even  of  years. 

177 


The  many  wilted  collars  that  come  under  the  lifeless 
hands  of  Sing  Lee  tell  him  an  old  story.  The  story  has  not 
varied  for  thirty-five  years.  A  solution  of  water,  soap  and 
starch  makes  the  collars  clean  again  and  stiff.  They  go  back 
and  they  return,  always  wilted  and  soiled.  Sing  Lee  needs  no 
further  corroboration  of  the  fact  that  the  crowds  are  at  work. 
Doing  what?  Soiling  their  linen.  That  is  as  final  as  anything 
the  crowds  do.  Sing  Lee's  curiosity  does  not  venture  beyond 
finalities. 

Sing  Lee  is  a  resident  of  America.  But  this  is  a  formal 
statistic  and  refers  only  to  the  automaton  that  owns  the  hand 
laundry  in  Lake  Park  Avenue.  Observe  a  few  more  formal 
facts  of  Sing  Lee's  life.  He  has  never  been  to  a  movie  or  a 
theater  play.  He  has  never  ridden  in  an  automobile.  He  has 
never  looked  at  the  lake. 

Thus  it  becomes  obvious  that  Sing  Lee  lives  somewhere 
else.  For  a  man  must  go  somewhere  in  thirty-five  years.  Or 
do  something.  There  is  a  story  then,  in  Sing  Lee.  Not  a 
particularly  long  story.  Life  stories  are  sometimes  no  longer 
than  a  single  line — a  sentence,  even  a  phrase.  So  if  one  could 
find  out  where  Sing  Lee  lives  one  would  have  a  story  perhaps 
a  whole  sentence  long. 

"Mukee  kai,  Sing  Lee." 

A  nod  of  the  thin  head. 

"Business  good?" 

Another  nod. 

*  Pretty  tired,  washing,  ironing  all  day,  eh?" 

A  nod. 

"When  are  you  going  to  put  in  a  laundry  machine?** 

A  shake  of  the  thin  head. 

"When  are  you  going  to  quit,  Sing  Lee?" 

Another  shake  of  the  thin  head. 

"You're  not  very  gabby  tonight,  Sing." 

A  dignified  answer  to  this:    "I  thinking.** 

"What  about,  Sing  Lee?** 

178 


A  faint  smile.  The  smile  seems  to  set  Sing  Lee  in  motion. 
It  comes  from  behind  the  automaton.  It  is  perhaps  Sing  Lee's 
first  gesture  of  life  in  weeks. 

"You  don't  mind  my  sitting  here  and  smoking  a  pipe, 
eh?" 

The  minutes  pass.  Sing  Lee  stands  up.  He  turns  on  a 
small  electric  light.  This  is  a  concession.  This  done,  he  opens 
a  drawer  behind  the  counter  and  removes  a  little  bronze 
casket.  The  casket  is  placed  on  the  counter.  Slowly  as  if  in 
a  deep  dream  Sing  Lee  lights  a  match  and  holds  it  inside  the 
casket.  A  thin  spiral  of  lavender  smoke  unwinds  from  its 
mouth. 

Sing  Lee  watches  the  spiral  of  smoke.  It  wavers  and 
unwinds.  A  finger  writing;  an  idiot  flower.  Then  it  opens 
up  into  a  large  smoke  eye.  Smoke  eyes  drift  casually  away. 
An  odor  crawls  into  the  air.  Sing  Lee's  eyes  close  gently 
and  his  thin  body  moves  as  he  takes  a  deep  breath. 

His  eyes  still  closed,  Sing  Lee  speaks. 

"You  writer?"  he  murmurs. 

"Yes." 

"I  too,"  says  Sing  Lee.     "I  write  poem." 

"Yes?     When  did  you  do  that?" 

"Oh,  long  ago.     Mebbe  year.     Mebbe  five  years." 

Sing  Lee  reaches  into  the  open  drawer  and  takes  out 
a  large  sheet  of  rice  paper.  It  is  partly  covered  with  Chinese 
letters  up  and  down. 

"I  read  you  in  English,"  says  Sing  Lee.  His  eyes  remain 
almost  shut.  He  reads: 

The  sky  is  young  blue. 

Many  fields  wait, 

Many  people  look  at  young  blue  *ky. 

Old  people  look  at  young  blue  sky. 

Many  birds  fly. 

At  night  moon  comes  and  young  blue  sky  is  old. 

Many  young  people  look  at  old  sky. 

179 


"Did  you  write  that  about  Chicago,  Sing  Lee?" 

"No,  no,"  says  Sing  Lee.     His  eyes  open.     The  smoke 

eyes  from  the  incense  pot  drift  like  miniature  ghost  clouds 

behind   him   and   creep   along   the  rows  of  yellow  laundry 

packages. 

"No,  no,"  says  Sing  Lee.      "I  write  that  about  Canton. 

I  born  in  Canton  many  years  ago.     Many,  many  years  ago." 


IRS.  RODJEZKE'S  LAST  JOB 

Mrs.  Rodjezke  scrubbed  the  corridors  of  the  Otis  building 
.fter  the  lawyers,  stenographers  and  financiers  had  gone  home. 
During  the  day  Mrs.  Rodjezke  found  other  means  of  occupying 
her  time.     Keeping  the  two  Rodjezke  children  in  order,  keep- 
Ing  the  three-room  flat,  near  the  corner  of  Twenty-ninth  and 
,allace    streets,    in    order    and    hiring   herself    for    half-day 
leaning,   washing  or  minding-the-baby  jobs   filled   this  part 
>f  her  day.     As  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  no  fault  could  be  found 
rith  the  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Rodjezke  used  that  part  of  her 

time. 

At  five-thirty  she  reported  for  work  in  the  janitor's  quar 
ters  of  the  office  building.  She  was  given  her  pail,  her  scrub 
[brush,  mop  and  bar  of  soap  and  with  eight  other  women  who 
ooked  curiously  like  herself  started  to  work  in  the  corridors. 
The  feet  of  the  lawyers,  stenographers  and  financiers  had  left 
Ltains.  Crawling  inch  by  inch  down  the  tiled  flooring,  Mrs. 
Rodjezke  removed  the  stains  one  at  a  time.  Eight  years  at 
work  had  taken  away  the  necessity  of  her  wearing  knee 
ads.  Mrs.  Rodjezke's  knees  did  not  bother  her  very  much 
las  she  scrubbed. 

In  the  evening  Mrs.  Rodjezke  usually  rode  home  in  the 
t  car.  There  were  several  odd  items  about  Mrs.  Rodjezke 
^  one  could  observe  as  she  sat  motionless  and  staring  in 
icr  seat  waiting  for  the  2900  block  to  appear.  First,  there 
rere  her  clothes.  Mrs.  Rodjezke  was  not  of  the  light-minded 
_>e  of  woman  that  changes  styles  with  the  season.  Winter 
id  summer  she  wore  the  same. 

Then  there  were  her  hands.     Mrs.  Rodjezke's  fingernails 
/ere  a  contrast  to  the  rest  of  her.     The  rest  of  her  was  some- 
,at  vigorous  and  buxom  looking.     The  fingernails,  however, 
./ere  pale — a  colorless  light  blue.     And  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
ooked  a  trifle  swollen.     Also  the  tips  of  her  fingers  were  dif 
ferent  in  shade  from  the  rest  of  her  hands. 

181 


Another  item  of  note  was  her  coiffure.  Mrs.  Rodjezke 
was  always  indifferently  dressed,  her  clothes  looking  as  if  they 
had  been  thrown  on  and  pinned  together.  Yet  her  coiffure  was 
almost  a  proud  and  careful-looking  thing.  It  proclaimed,  alas, 
that  the  scrubwoman,  despite  the  sensible  employment  of  her 
time,  was  not  entirely  free  from  the  vanities  of  her  sex.  The 
deliberate  coiling  and  arranging  of  her  stringy  black  hair 
must  have  taken  a  good  fifteen  minutes  regularly  out  of  Mrs. 
Rodjezke's  otherwise  industrious  day. 

These  items  are  given  in  order  that  Mrs.  Rodjezke  may 
be  visualized  for  a  moment  as  she  rode  home  on  a  recent 
evening.  It  was  very  hot  and  the  papers  carried  news  on  the 
front  page:  "Hot  Spell  to  Continue." 

Mrs.  Rodjezke  got  off  the  car  at  29th  and  Halsted  streets 
and  walked  to  her  flat.  Here  the  two  Rodjezke  children,  who 
were  8  and  1 0  years  old  respectively,  were  demanding  their 
supper.  After  the  food  was  eaten  Mrs.  Rodjezke  said,  in 
Bohemian: 

"We  are  going  down  to  the  beach  to-night  and  go  in 
swimming." 

Shouts  from  the  younger  Rodjezkes. 

When  the  family  appeared  on  the  5  1  st  Street  beach  it 
was  alive  with  people  from  everywhere.  They  stood  around 
cooling  off  in  their  bathing  suits  and  trying  to  forget  how  hot 
it  was  by  covering  themselves  in  the  chill  sand. 

Mrs.  Rodjezke's  bathing  suit  was  of  the  kind  that  attracts 
attention  these  days.  It  was  voluminous  and  hand  made  and 
it  looked  as  if  it  might  have  functioned  as  a  "wrapper"  in  its 
palmier  days.  For  a  long  time  nobody  noticed  Mrs.  Rodjezke. 
She  sat  on  the  sand.  Her  head  felt  dizzy.  Her  eyes  burned. 
And  there  was  a  burn  in  the  small  of  her  back.  Her  knees 
also  burned  and  the  tips  of  her  fingers  throbbed. 

These  symptoms  failed  to  startle  Mrs.  Rodjezke.  Their 
absence  would  have  been  more  of  a  surprise.  She  sat  staring 
at  the  lake  and  trying  to  keep  track  of  her  children.  But  their 
dark  heads  lost  themselves  in  the  noisy  crowds  in  front  of  her 

182 


and  she  gave  that  up.  They  would  return  in  due  time.  Mrs. 
Rodjezke  must  not  be  criticized  for  a  maternal  indifference. 
The  children  of  scrubwomen  always  return  in  due  time. 

Mrs.  Rodjezke  had  come  to  the  lake  to  cool  off.  The 
idea  of  going  for  a  swim  had  been  in  her  head  for  at  least  three 
years.  She  had  always  been  able  to  overcome  it,  but  this 
time  somehow  it  had  got  the  better  of  her  and  she  had  moved 
almost  blindly  toward  the  water  front. 

"I  will  get  a  rest  in  the  water,"  she  thought. 

But  now  on  the  beach  Mrs.  Rodjezke  found  it  difficult  to 
rest.  The  dishes  weren't  washed  in  the  kitchen  home.  The 
clothes  needed  changing  on  the  beds.  And  other  things.  Lots 
of  other  things. 

Mrs.  Rodjezke  sighed  as  the  shouts  of  the  bathers  floated 
by  her  ears.  The  sun  had  almost  gone  down  and  the  lake 
looked  dull.  Faintly  colored  clouds  were  beginning  to  hide 
the  water.  It  was  no  use.  Mrs.  Rodjezke  couldn't  rest.  She 
sat  and  stared  harder  at  the  lake.  Yes,  there  was  something 
to  do.  Before  it  got  too  dark.  Something  very  important  to 
do.  And  it  wasn't  right  not  to  do  it.  The  scrubwoman  sighed 
again  and  put  her  hand  against  her  side.  The  burn  had 
dropped  to  there.  It  had  also  gone  into  her  head.  But  that 
was  a  thing  which  must  be  forgotten.  Mrs.  Rodjezke  had 
learned  how  to  forget  it  during  the  eight  years. 

A  girl  saw  it  first.  She  was  laughing  in  a  group  of  young 
men  from  the  hotel.  Then  she  exclaimed,  suddenly: 

"Heavens!     Look  at  that  woman!" 

The  group  looked.  They  saw  a  middle-aged  woman  in 
a  humorous  bathing  costume  crawling  patiently  down  the 
beach  on  her  hands  and  knees.  Soon  other  people  were  look 
ing.  Nobody  interfered  at  first.  Perhaps  this  was  a  curious 
exercise.  Some  of  them  laughed. 

But  the  woman's  actions  grew  stranger.  She  would  stop 
as  she  crawled  and  lift  up  handfuls  of  water  from  the  edge  of 

183 


the  lake.  Tlien  she  would  start  scratching  in  the  sand.  A 
crowd  collected  and  the  beach  policeman  arrived.  The  beach 
policeman  looked  down  at  the  woman  on  her  hands  and  knees. 

She  had  stopped  and  her  face  had  grown  sad. 

"What's  the  matter  here?*'  the  policeman  asked  of  her. 

The  woman  began  to  cry.  Her  tears  flooded  her  round 
worn  face. 

*'I  can't  finish  it  to-night,"  she  sobbed,  "not  now  anyway. 
I'm  too  tired.  I  can't  finish  it  to-night.  And  the  soap  has 
floated  away.  The  soap  is  gone." 

Mrs.  Rodjezke  was  taken  up  by  the  policeman  with  the 
two  Rodjezke  children,  who  had,  of  course,  returned  in  due 
time.  They  cried  and  cried  and  the  group  went  to  the  police 
station. 

"I  don't  know  what's  wrong  with  the  poor  woman,"  said 
the  beach  policeman  to  the  Hyde  Park  police  sergeant.  "But 
she  was  moving  up  and  down  like  she  was  trying  to  scrub  the 
beach." 

"I  guess,"  said  the  sergeant,  "we'll  have  to  turn  her  over 
to  the  psychopathic  hospital." 

There's  a  lot  more  to  the  story,  but  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  Mrs.  Rodjezke' s  last  job. 


QUEEN  BESS'  FEAST 

Elizabeth  Winslow,  who  was  a  short,  fat  woman  with  an 
amazing  gift  of  profanity  and  "known  to  the  police"  as  "Queen 
Bess/'  is  dead.  According  to  the  coroner's  report  Queen  Bess 
died  suddenly  in  a  Wabash  Avenue  rooming  house  at  the  age 
of  seventy. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  Queen  Bess  rented  rooms  and  sold 
drinks  according  to  the  easy-going  ideas  of  that  day.  But 
there  was  something  untouched  by  the  sordidness  of  her  calling 
about  this  ample  Rabelaisian  woman.  There  was  a  noise  about 
Queen  Bess  lacking  in  her  harpy  contemporaries. 

"Big-hearted  Bess,"  the  coppers  used  to  call  her,  and 
"Queenie"  was  the  name  her  employees  had  for  her.  But  to 
customers  she  was  always  Queen  Bess.  In  the  district  where 
Queen  Bess  functioned  the  gossip  of  the  day  always  prophesied 
dismally  concerning  her.  She  didn't  save  her  money,  Queen 
Bess  didn't.  And  the  time  would  come  when  she'd  realize 
what  that  meant.  And  the  idea  of  Queen  Bess  blowing  in 
$5,000  for  a  tally-ho  layout  to  ride  to  the  races  in!  Six  horses 
and  two  drivers  in  yellow  and  blue  livery  and  girls  all  dressed 
like  sore  thumbs  and  the  beribboned  and  painted  coach 
bouncing  down  the  boulevard  to  Washington  Park — a  lot  of 
good  that  would  do  her  in  her  old  age! 

But  Queen  Bess  went  her  way,  throwing  her  tainted 
money  back  to  the  town  as  fast  as  the  town  threw  it  into  her 
purse,  roaring,  swearing,  laughing — a  thumping  sentimentalist, 
a  clownish  Samaritan,  a  Madam  Aphrodite  by  Rube  Goldberg. 
There  are  many  stories  that  used  to  go  the  rounds.  But  when 
I  read  the  coroner's  report  there  was  one  tale  in  particular  that 
started  up  in  my  head  again.  A  mawkish  tale,  perhaps,  and 
if  I  write  it  with  too  maudlin  a  slant  I  know  who  will  wince  the 
worst — Queen  Bess,  of  course,  who  will  sit  up  in  her  grave  and, 
fastening  a  blazing  eye  on  me,  curse  me  out  for  every  variety 
of  fat-head  and  imbecile  known  to  her  exhaustive  calendar  of 
epithets. 

185 


BES 
FEA 


9 


Nevertheless,  in  memory  of  the  set  of  Oscar  Wilde's 
works  presented  to  my  roommate  twelve  years  ago  one  Christ 
mas  morning  by  Queen  Bess,  and  in  memory  of  the  six  world- 
famous  oaths  this  great  lady  invented — here  goes.  Let  Bess 
roar  in  her  grave.  There's  one  thing  she  can't  do  and  that's 
call  me  a  liar. 

It  was  Thanksgiving  day  and  years  ago  and  my  roommate 
Ned  and  I  were  staring  glumly  over  the  roofs  of  the  town. 

"I've  got  an  invitation  for  Thanksgiving  dinner  for  both 
of  us,"  said  Ned.  "But  I  feel  kind  of  doubtful  about  going." 

I  inquired  what  kind  of  invitation. 

**An  engraved  invitation,'*  grinned  Ned.  "Here  it  is.  I'll 
read  it  to  you."  He  read  from  a  white  card:  "You  are  cor 
dially  invited  to  attend  au  Thanksgiving  dinner  at  the  home  of 

Queen  Bess,  Street  and  Wabash  Avenue,  at  3  o'clock. 

You  may  bring  one  gentleman  friend." 

"Why  not  go?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  a  New  Englander  at  heart,"  smiled  Ned,  "and 
Thanksgiving  is  a  sort  of  meaningful  holiday.  Particularly 
when  you're  alone  in  the  great  and  wicked  city.  I've  inquired 
of  some  of  the  fellows  about  Queen  Bess's  dinner.  It  seems  that 
she  gives  one  every  Thanksgiving  and  that  they're  quite  a 
tradition  or  institution.  I  can't  find  out  what  sort  they  are, 
though.  I  suspect  some  sort  of  an  orgy  on  the  order  of  the 
Black  Mass." 

At  2  o'clock  we  left  our  room  and  headed  for  the  house 
of  Queen  Bess. 

A  huge  and  ornamental  chamber  known  as  the  ballroom, 
or  the  parlor,  had  been  converted  into  a  dining-room.  Ned 
and  I  were  early.  Six  or  seven  men  had  arrived.  They  stood 
around  ill  at  ease,  looking  at  the  flamboyant  paintings  on  the 
wall  as  if  they  were  inspecting  the  Titian  room  of  some  mu 
seum.  Ned,  who  knew  the  town,  pointed  out  two  of  the  six 

186 


as  men  of  means.     One  was  manager  of  a  store.     One  was  a 
jilliard  champion  in  a  Michigan  Avenue  club. 

Gradually  the  room  filled  up.  A  dozen  more  men 
arrived.  Each  was  admitted  by  invitation  as  we  had  been. 
Sally,  the  colored  mammy  of  the  house,  took  charge  and  bade 
us  be  seated.  Some  twenty  men  took  their  places  about  the 
ong  rectangular  table.  And  then  a  pianist  entered.  I  think 
t  was  Prof.  Schultz.  He  played  the  piano  in  the  ballrooms 
of  the  district.  He  came  in  in  a  brand-new  frock  coat  and 
patent  leather  shoes  and  sat  down  at  the  ivories.  There  was 
a  pause  and  then  the  professor  struck  up,  doloroso  pianissimo, 
the  tune  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home." 

As  the  first  notes  carrying  the  almost  audible  words,  "Mid 
pleasures  and  palaces"  arose  from  the  piano  the  folding  doors 
at  the  end  of  the  ballroom  parted  and  there  appeared  Queen 
Bess,  followed  by  fifteen  of  the  girls  who  sold  drinks  for  her. 
Queen  Bess  was  dressed  in  black,  her  white  hair  coiffured  like 
a  hospital  superintendent's.  Her  girls  were  dressed  in  simple 
afternoon  frocks.  Neither  rouge  nor  beads  were  to  be  seen 
on  them.  And  as  the  professor  played  "Home,  Sweet  Home" 
Queen  Bess  marched  her  companions  solemnly  down  the  length 
of  the  ballroom  and  seated  them  at  the  table. 

I  remember  that  before  the  numerous  servitors  started 
Functioning  Queen  Bess  made  a  speech.  She  stood  up  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  her  red  face  beaming  under  her  white  hair 
and  her  black  eyes  commanding  the  attention  of  the  men  and 
women  before  her. 

"All  of  you  know  who  I  am,  blankety  blank,"  said  Queen 
Bess,  "and,  blankety  blank,  what  a  reputation  I  got.  All  of 
you  know.  But  I've  invited  you  to  this  blankety  blank  dinner, 
hoping  you  will  humor  me  for  the  afternoon  and  pretend  you 
forget  I  would  like  to  see  you  enjoy  yourselves  at  the  ban 
quet  board,  eat  and  drink  what  wine  there  is  and  laugh  and 
be  thankful,  but  without  pulling  any  blankety  blank  rough 
stuff.  I  would  like  to  see  you  enjoy  yourselves  as  if  you  were 

187 


in — in  your  own  homes.  Which  I  take  it  none  of  you  gentle 
men  have  got,  seeing  you  are  sitting  here  at  the  board  of 
Queen  Bess. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  she  concluded,  "if  it's  asking  too  much 
of  you  to  forget,  the  fault  is  mine  and  not  yours.  And  nobody 
will  be  penalized  or  bawled  out,  blankety  blank  him,  for  being 
unable  to  forget.  But  if  you  can  forget,  and  if  you  can  let 
us  enjoy  ourselves  for  an  afternoon  in  a  blankety  blank  decent 
and  God-fearing  way — God  love  you." 

And  Queen  Bess  sat  down.  We  ate  and  drank  and 
laughed  till  seven  o'clock  that  evening.  And  I  remember  that 
not  one  of  the  twenty  men  present  used  a  profane  word  during 
this  time;  not  one  of  them  did  or  said  anything  that 
wouldn't  have  passed  muster  in  his  own  home,  if  he  had  one. 
And  that  no  one  got  drunk  except  Queen  Bess.  Yes,  Queen 
Bess  in  her  black  dress  got  very  drunk  and  swore  like  a  trooper 
and  laughed  like  a  crazy  child.  And  when  the  party  was 
over  Queen  Bess  stood  at  the  door  and  we  passed  out,  shaking 
hands  with  her  and  giving  her  our  thanks.  She  stood,  steady 
ing  herself  against  the  door  beam,  and  saying  to  each  of  us 
as  she  shook  our  hands: 

"God  love  you.  God  love  you  for  bringing  happiness 
to  a  blankety  blank  blank  like  old  Queen  Bess." 


THE   DAGGER  VENUS 

The  great  Gabriel  Salvini,  whose  genius  has  electrified 
the  populace  of  a  thousand  vaudeville  centers,  sat  in  his  suite 
at  the  Astor  Hotel  and  listened  glumly  to  the  strains  from  a 
phonograph. 

"What  is  the  use?"  growled  the  great  Salvini.  "It  is  no 
use.  You  listen  to  her." 

"New  music  for  your  act,  signor?" 

"No,  no,  no.  My  wife.  You  hear  her?  She  lie  on  the 
floor.  The  phonograph  music  play.  The  man  call  from  the 
phonograph,  'one,  two;  one,  two;  one,  higher;  one,  two/ 
And  my  wife,  she  lie  on  the  floor  and  she  kick  up.  She  kick 
down.  She  roll  over.  She  bend  back.  She  bend  forward. 
But  it  is  no  use." 

"Madam  is  reducing,  then,  signor?" 

"Bah!  She  kick.  She  roll.  She  jump.  I  say  'Lucia, 
what  good  for  you  to  kick  and  jump  when  tonight  you  sit 
down  and  you  eat;  name  of  God,  how  you  eat!  Potatoes  and 
more  potatoes.  Bread  with  butter  on  it.  Meat,  pie,  cream, 
candy — ten  thousand  devils!  She  eat  and  eat  until  the  eyes 
stick  out.  There  is  no  more  place  to  put.  And  I  say,  'Lucia, 
you  eat  enough  for  six  weeks  every  time  you  set  down  to  the 
table/  I  say,  *Lucia,  look  how  the  MacSwiney  of  Ireland  go 
for  thirty  weeks  without  eating  one  bite/  Bah!" 

"It  is  difficult  to  make  a  woman  stop  eating,  signor." 

"Difficult!  Aha,  but  she  must  stop,  or  what  become  of 
me,  the  great  Salvini,  who  have  200  medals?  Look!  I  will 
show  you  from  my  book  what  they  say  of  me.  They  say, 
'Salvini  is  the  greatest  in  his  line/  They  say,  'Here  is  genius; 
here  is  a  man  whose  skill  transcends  the  imagination/  So 
what  I  do  if  madam  keep  on  growing  fatter?  Ah,  you  hear 
that  music?  It  drive  me  crazy.  I  sit  every  day  and  listen. 
You  hear  her  kick.  Bang,  bang!  That's  how  she  kick  up 
when  she  lie  on  the  back.  Ah,  it  is  tragedy,  tragedy  I" 

189 


I  nodded  in  silence  as  the  great  Salvini  arose  and  moved 
across  the  room,  a  dapper  figure  in  a  scarlet  dressing  gown 
and  green  silk  slippers.  He  returned  with  a  fresh  load  of 
cigarettes.  I  noticed  his  hands — thin,  gentle-looking  fingers, 
like  a  woman's.  They  quivered  perceptibly  as  he  lighted  his 
smoke,  and  I  marveled  at  this — that  the  wizard  fingers  of  the 
great  Gabriel  Salvini  should  shake! 

"I  tell  you  my  story/'  he  resumed.  "I  tell  no  one  else. 
But  you  shall  hear  it.  It  is  a  story  of — of  this."  And  he 
clapped  his  hand  despairingly  over  his  heart.  "I  suffer.  Name 
of  God,  I  suffer  every  day,  every  night.  And  why? 
because!  You  listen  to  her.  She  still  kick  and  kick  and  kick. 
And  I  sit  here  and  think  'Where  will  it  all  end  ?  *  Another  five 
pounds  and  I  am  ruined. 

"It  is  ten  years  ago  I  meet  her.  Ah,  so  beautiful,  so  sweet, 
so  light — like  this."  And  the  great  Salvini  traced  the  waver 
ing  elfin  proportions  of  the  Lucia  of  his  youth  in  the  air  with 
his  hands. 

"And  I  say  to  her,  'My  beloved,  my  queen,  you  and  I 
will  be  married  and  we  will  work  together  and  grow  famous 
and  rich.'  And  she  say,  'Yes.*  So  we  marry  and  begin  work 
at  once.  I  am  in  Milan,  in  Italy.  And  all  through  the  honey 
moon  I  study  my  Lucia.  For  my  work  is  hard.  All  through 
the  honeymoon  I  use  only  little  stickers  I  throw  at  her.  I 
begin  that  way.  Five,  six,  seven  hours  a  day  we  practice. 
Ah,  so  sweet  and  beautiful  she  is  as  she  stand  against  the 
board  and  I  throw  the  little  stickers  at  her.  She  smile  at  me, 
'Have  courage,  Salvini.'  And  I  see  the  love  in  her  eyes  and 
am  happy  and  my  arm  and  wrist  are  sure. 

"Then  I  buy  the  knives  to  throw  at  her.  I  buy  the  best. 
Beautiful  knives.  I  have  them  made  for  her  special.  For  not 
a  hair  of  my  beloved's  head  must  be  touched.  And  we 
practice  with  the  knives.  I  am  then  already  famous.  Every 
body  in  Italy  knows  Salvini,  the  great  knife  thrower.  They 

190 


tay,  'Never  has  there  been  a  young  man  of  such  genius  with 
he  knives.'     But  I  am  only  begin. 

"Our  debut  is  a  success.  What  do  I  say,  'Success!'  Bah! 
t  is  like  wildfire.  They  stand  up  and  cheer.  'Salvini,  Salvini  I' 
hey  cry.  And  she,  my  beloved,  stand  against  the  board 
ramed  by  the  beautiful  knives  that  fit  exactly  around  her — 

0  an  inch,  to  a  quarter  inch,  to  a  hair  from  her  ears  and  neck, 
nd  she  stand,  and  as  they  cheer  for  Salvini,  the  great  Salvini, 
see  her  smile  at  me.     Ah,  how  sweet  she  is!     How  happy  I 

m! 

"And  so  we  go  on.  I  train  all  the  time.  Soon  I  know  the 
utline  of  my  Lucia  so  well  I  can  close  my  eyes  and  throw 
tnives  at  her,  and  always  they  come  with  the  point  only  a 
lair  away  from  her  body.  I  pin  her  dress  against  the  board, 
r  arms  she  stretch  out  and  I  give  her  two  sleeves  of  knives, 
nd  for  five  years,  no  for  eight  years,  everything  go  well. 
Mever  once  I  touch  her.  Always  I  watch  her  eyes  when  I 
hrow  and  her  eyes  give  me  courage. 

"But  then  what  happen?  Ah,  ten  thousand  devils,  she 
begin.  She  grow  fat.  One  night  I  send  a  knife  through  the 
skin  of  her  arm.  I  cannot  go  on  with  the  act.  I  must  stop. 
[  break  down  and  weep.  For  I  love  her  so  much  the  blood 
that  comes  from  her  arm  drive  me  crazy.  But  I  say,  'How  did 
the  great  Salvini  make  such  a  mistake?  It  is  incredible/  Then 

1  look  at  her  and  I  see  something.     She  is  getting  fat.     Name 
of  God,  I  shudder.     I  say,  'Lucia,  we  are  ruined.     You  get  fat. 
I  can  only  throw  knives  at  you  like  you  were,  like  we  have 
studied  together.     You  get  fat.     I  must  change  my  throw.     I 
cannot!" 

The  great  Salvini  raised  his  shoulders  in  a  despairing 
shrug. 

'Two  years  ago  that  was,"  he  whispered.  "She  weigh 
one  hundred  fifty  pounds  when  we  marry.  So  pretty,  so 

191 


light  she  is.  But  now  she  weigh  already  two  hundred  pounds, 
and  she  is  going  up.  She  will  not  listen  to  me. 

"It  is  the  eat,  the  eat,  the  terrible  eat  which  do  this. 
And  every  night  when  we  perform  I  shiver,  I  grow  cold.  I 
stand  looking  at  her  as  she  take  her  place  on  the  board. 
And  I  see  she  have  grow  bigger.  Perhaps  it  is  nothing  to  you, 
a  woman  grown  bigger.  But  to  Salvini  it  is  ruin. 

"I  throw  the  knife.  Zip  it  goes  and  I  close  my  eyes  each 
time.  I  no  longer  dare  give  her  the  beautiful  frame  as  before. 
But  I  must  throw  away.  Because  for  eight  years  I  have  thrown 
at  a  target  of  1 5  0  pounds.  And  my  art  cannot  change. 

"Some  day  she  will  be  sorry.  Yes,  some  day  she  will 
understand  what  she  is  doing  to  me.  She  will  eat,  eat  until 
she  grow  so  fat  that  it  is  all  my  target  that  I  mastered  on  the 
honeymoon.  And  I  will  throw  the  knife  over.  She  will  no 
longer  be  Lucia,  and  it  will  hit.  Name  of  God,  it  will  hit  her 
and  sink  in." 

"Well,  she  will  have  learned  a  lesson  then,  signor." 

"She  will  have  learned.  But  me,  I  will  be  ruined.  They 
will  laugh.  They  will  say,  *Salvini,  the  great  Salvini,  is  done. 
He  cannot  throw  the  knives  any  more.  Look,  last  night  he 
hit  his  wife.  Twice,  three,  times  he  threw  the  knives  into  her/ 
Saprlsti!  It  is  the  stubbornness  of  womankind. 

"I  will  tell  you.  Why  does  she  eat,  eat,  eat?  Why  does 
she  grow  fat?  Because  she  no  longer  loves  me.  No,  she  do 
it  on  purpose  to  ruin  me." 

And  the  great  Salvini  covered  his  ears  with  his  hands  as 
the  phonograph  continued  relentlessly,  "one,  two,  one,  two, 
higher,  two." 


LETTERS 

One  of  the  drawers  in  my  desk  is  full  of  letters  that  people 
have  sent  in.  Some  of  them  are  knocks  or  boosts,  but  most 
of  them  are  tips.  There  are  several  hundred  tips  on  stories 

in  the  drawer. 

Today,  while  looking  them  over  I  thought  that  these 
ips  were  a  story  in  themselves.  To  begin  with,  the  different 
dnds  of  stationery  and  the  different  kinds  of  handwriting. 
You  would  think  that  stationery  and  handwriting  so  varied 
would  contain  varied  suggestions  and  varied  points  of  view. 

But  from  the  top  of  the  pile  to  the  bottom — through 
360  letters  written  on  360  different  kinds  of  paper — there 
runs  only  one  tip.  And  in  the  360  different  kinds  of  hand 
writing  there  runs  only  one  story. 

'There  is  a  man  I  see  almost  every  day  on  my  way  home 
from  work,"  writes  one,  "and  I  think  he  would  make  a  good 
story.  There  is  something  queer  about  him.  He  keeps  mum 
bling  to  himself  all  the  time."  This  tip  is  on  plain  stationery. 

and  I  see  the  old  woman  frequently,"  writes  another. 

"Nobody  knows  who  she  is  or  what  she  does.  She  is  sure  a 
woman  of  mystery.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  get  a  good  story 
out  of  her."  This  tip  is  on  pink  stationery. 

"I  think  you  can  find  him  around  midnight  walking 
through  the  city  hall.  He  walks  through  the  hall  every  mid 
night  and  whistles  queer  tunes.  Nobody  has  ever  talked  to 
him  and  they  don't  know  what  he  does  there.  There  is  certainly 
a  queer  story  in  that  man."  This  tip  is  written  on  a  business 
letterhead. 

"She  lives  in  a  back  room  and  so  far  as  anybody  knows 
has  no  occupation.  There's  something  awfully  queer  about 
her  and  I've  often  wondered  what  the  mystery  about  her  really 
was.  Won't  you  look  her  up  and  write  it  out?  Her  address 
-"  This  tip  is  on  monogrammed  paper. 

193 


'Tve  been  waiting  for  you  to  write  about  the  queer  old 
man  who  hangs  out  on  the  Dearborn  Street  bridge.  I've 
passed  him  frequently  and  he's  always  at  the  same  place. 
I've  wondered  time  and  again  what  his  history  was  and  why 
he  always  stood  in  the  same  place."  This  tip  is  on  a  broker's 
stationery. 

* 'He  sells  hot  beans  in  the  loop  and  he's  an  old-timer. 
He's  always  laughing  and  whenever  I  see  him  I  think,  "There's 
a  story  in  that  old  man.  There's  sure  something  odd  about 
him/  "  This  tip  is  on  scratch  paper. 

"I  saw  her  first  several  years  ago.  She  was  dressed  all 
in  black  and  was  running.  As  it  was  past  midnight  I  thought 
it  strange.  But  I've  seen  her  since  and  always  late  at  night 
and  she's  always  running.  She  must  be  about  forty  years  old 
and  from  what  I  could  see  of  her  face  a  very  curious  kind  of 
woman.  In  fact,  we  call  her  the  woman  of  mystery  in  our 
neighborhood.  Come  out  to  Oakley  Avenue  some  night  and 
see  for  yourself.  There's  a  wonderful  story  in  that  running 
woman,  I'm  certain."  This  tip  is  signed  "A  Stenographer." 

They  continue — tips  on  strange,  weird,  curious,  odd,  old, 
chuckling,  mysterious  men  and  women.  Solitaries.  Enigmatic 
figures  moving  silently  through  the  streets.  Nameless  ones; 
exiles  from  the  free  and  easy  conformity  of  the  town. 

If  you  should  read  these  letters  all  through  at  one  sitting 
you  would  get  a  very  strange  impression  of  the  city.  You 
would  see  a  procession  of  mysterious  figures  flitting  through 
the  streets,  an  unending  swarm  of  dim  ones,  queer  ones.  And 
then  as  you  kept  on  reading  this  procession  would  gradually 
focus  into  a  single  figure.  This  is  because  all  the  letters  are 
so  nearly  alike  and  because  the  mysterious  ones  offered  as  tips 
are  described  in  almost  identical  terms. 

So  the  dim  ones,  the  queer  ones,  would  become  a  com 
posite,  and  you  would  have  in  your  thought  the  image  of  a 
single  one.  A  huge,  nebulous  caricature — hooded,  its  head 
lowered,  its  eyes  peering  furtively  from  under  shaggy  brows, 

194 


its  thin  fingers  fumbling  under  a  great  black  cloak,  its  feet 
moving  in  a  soundless  shuffle  over  the  pavement. 

Sometimes  I  have  gone  out  and  found  the  "woman  of 
mystery"  given  in  a  letter.  Usually  an  embittered  creature 
living  in  the  memory  of  wrongs  that  life  has  done  her.  Or  a 
psychopathic  case  suffering  from  hallucinations  or  at  war  with 
its  own  impulses.  And  each  of  them  has  said,  "I  hate  people. 
I  don't  like  this  neighborhood.  And  I  keep  to  myself.*' 

The  letters  all  ask,  "Who  is  this  one?" 

But  that  doesn't  begin  to  answer  the  question  the  letters 
ask,  "Who  is  it?" 

The  story  of  the  odd  ones  is  perhaps  no  more  interesting 
than  the  story  that  might  be  written  of  the  letters  that  "tip 
them  off."  A  story  here,  of  the  harried,  buried  little  figures 
that  make  up  the  swarm  of  the  city  and  of  the  way  they  glimpse 
mystery  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes.  Of  the  way  they 
pause  for  a  moment  on  their  treadmill  to  wonder  about  the 
silent,  shuffling  caricature  with  its  hooded  face  and  its  thin 
fingers  groping  under  its  heavy  black  cloak. 

In  another  drawer  1  have  stored  away  letters  of  another 
kind.  Letters  that  the  caricature  sends  me.  Queer,  marvelous 
scrawls  that  remind  one  of  spiders  and  bats  swinging  against 
white  backgrounds.  These  letters  are  seldom  signed.  They 
are  written  almost  invariably  on  cheap  blue  lined  pad  paper. 

There  are  at  least  two  hundred  of  them.  And  if  you 
should  read  them  all  through  at  one  sitting  you  would  get  a 
strange  sense  that  this  caricature  of  the  hooded  face  was  talking 
to  you.  That  the  Queer  One  who  shuffles  through  the  streets 
was  sitting  beside  you  and  whispering  marvelous  things  into 
your  ear. 

He  writes  of  the  stars,  of  inventions  that  will  revolutionize 
man,  of  discoveries  he  has  made,  of  new  continents  to  be 
Visited,  of  trips  to  the  moon  and  of  buried  races  that  live 
beneath  the  rivers  and  mountains.  He  writes  of  amazing 

195 


crimes  he  has  committed,  of  weird  longings  that  will  not  let 
him  sleep.  And,  too,  he  writes  of  strange  gods  which  man 
should  worship.  He  pours  out  his  soul  in  a  fantastic  scrawl. 
He  says:  "One  is  all.  God  looked  down  and  saw  ants.  The 
wheel  of  life  turns  seven  times  and  you  can  see  between.  You 
will  sometime  understand  this.  But  now  you  have  curtains 
on  your  eyes." 

Now  that  you  have  read  all  the  letters  the  city  becomes 
a  picture.  An  office  in  which  sits  a  well-dressed  business  man 
dictating  to  a  pretty  stenographer.  They  are  hard  at  work, 
but  as  they  work  their  eyes  glance  furtively  out  of  a  tall,  thin 
window.  Some  one  is  passing  outside  the  window.  A  strange 
figure,  hooded,  head  down,  with  his  hands  moving  queerly 
under  his  great  black  cloak. 


THE  MOTHER 


She  sat  on  one  of  the  benches  in  the  Morals  Court.  The 
years  had  made  a  coarse  mask  of  her  face.  There  was  nothing 
to  see  in  her  eyes.  Her  hands  were  red  and  leathery,  like  a 
man's.  They  had  done  a  man's  work. 

A  year-old  child  slept  in  her  arms.  It  was  bundled  up, 
although  the  courtroom  itself  was  suffocating.  She  was  waiting 
for  Blanche's  case  to  come  up.  Blanche  had  been  arrested  by  a 
policeman  for — well,  for  what?  Something  about  a  man. 
So  she  would  lose  $2.00  by  not  being  at  work  at  the  store 
today.  Why  did  they  arrest  Blanche?  She  was  in  that  room 
with  the  door  closed.  But  the  lawyer  said  not  to  worry.  Yes, 
maybe  it  was  a  mistake.  Blanche  never  did  nothing.  Blanche 
worked  at  the  store  all  day. 

At  night  Blanche  went  out.  But  she  was  a  young  girl. 
And  she  had  lots  of  friends.  Fine  men.  Sometimes  they 
brought  Blanche  home  late  at  night.  Blanche  was  her  daughter. 

The  woman  with  the  sleeping  child  in  her  arms  looked 
around.  The  room  was  nice.  A  big  room  with  a  good  ceiling. 
But  the  people  looked  bad.  Maybe  they  had  done  something 
and  had  been  arrested.  There  was  one  man  with  a  bad  face. 
She  watched  him.  He  came  quickly  to  where  she  was  sitting. 
What  was  he  saying?  A  lawyer. 

"No,  I  don't  want  no  lawyer,"  the  woman  with  the  child 
mumbled.  "No,  no." 

The  man  went  back.  He  kept  pretty  busy,  talking  to  lots 
of  people  in  the  room.  So  he  was  a  lawyer.  Blanche  had  a 
lawyer.  She  had  paid  him  $  1 0.  A  lot  of  money. 

"Shh,  Paula!"  the  woman  whispered.  Paula  was  the 
name  of  the  sleeping  child.  It  had  stirred  in  the  bundle. 

"Shh!     Mus'n't.     Da-ah-ah-ah — " 

She  rocked  sideways  with  the  bundle  and  crooned  over 
it,  Her  heavy  coarsened  face  seemed  to  grow  surprised  as 
ahe  stared  into  the  bundle.  The  child  grew  quiet. 

197 


The  judge  took  his  place.  Business  started.  From  where 
$he  sat  the  woman  with  the  child  couldn't  hear  anything.  She 
watched  little  groups  of  men  and  women  form  in  front  of  the 
judge.  Then  they  went  away  and  other  groups  came. 

The  lawyer  had  said  not  to  worry.  Just  wait  for  Blanche's 
name  and  then  come  right  up.  Not  to  worry. 

"Shh,  Paula,  shh!     Da-ah-ah-ah— " 

There  was  Blanche  coming  out  of  the  door.  She  looked 
bad.  Her  face.  Oh,  yes,  poor  girl,  she  worked  too  hard.  But 
what  could  she  do?  Only  work.  And  now  they  arrested 
her.  They  arrested  Blanche  when  the  streets  were  full  of  bums 
and  loafers,  they  arrested  Blanche  who  worked  hard. 

Go  up  in  front  like  the  lawyer  said.  Sure.  There  was 
Blanche  going  now.  And  the  lawyer,  too.  He  had  a  better 
face  than  the  other  one  who  came  and  asked. 

"And  is  this  the  woman?" 

The  lawyer  laughed  because  the  judge  asked  this. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said;  "no,  your  honor,  that's  her  mother. 
Step  up,  Blanche." 

What  did  the  policeman  say? 

"Shh!  Paula,  shh!  Da-ah — "  She  couldn't  hear  on 
account  of  Paula  moving  so  much  and  crying.  Paula  was 
hungry.  She'd  have  to  stay  hungry  a  little  while.  What  man? 
That  one! 

But  the  policeman  was  talking  about  the  man,  not  about 
Blanche. 

"He  said,  your  honor,  that  she'd  been  following  him 
down  Madison  Street  for  a  block,  talking  to  him  and  finally 
he  stopped  and  she  asked  him — " 

"Shh!     Paula,  don  t!     Bad  girl!     Shh!" 

That  man  with  the  black  mustache.     Who  was  he? 

"Yes,  your  honor,  I  never  saw  her  before.  I  walk  in 
the  street  and  she  come  up  and  talk  to  me  and  say,  'You  wanna 
come  home  with  me?*  " 

"Blanche,  how  long  has  this  been  going  on?" 

198 


Look,  Blanche  was  crying.  Shh,  Paula,  shh!  The  judge 
was  speaking.  But  Blanche  didn't  listen.  The  woman  with 
the  child  was  going  to  say,  "Blanche,  the  judge,"  but  her  tongue 
grew  frightened. 

"Speak  up,  Blanche."     The  judge  said  this. 

She  could  hardly  hear  Blanche.  It  was  funny  to  see  her 
cry.  Long  ago  she  used  to  cry  when  she  was  a  baby  like  Paula. 
But  since  she  went  to  work  she  never  cried.  Never  cried. 

"Oh,  judge!     Oh,  judge!     Please—'* 

Shh,  Paula!  Da-ah-ah-ah— "  Why  was  this>  What 
would  the  judge  do? 

"Have  you  ever  been  arrested  before,  Blanche?'* 

No,  no,  no!  She  must  tell  the  judge  that.  The  woman 
with  the  child  raised  her  face. 

"Please,  judge,"  she  said,  "No!  No!  She  never  arrested 
before.  She's  a  good  girl." 

"I  see,"  said  the  judge.  "Does  she  bring  her  money 
home?" 

"Yes,  yes,  judge!  Please,  she  brings  all  her  money  home. 
She's  a  good  girl." 

"Ever  seen  her  before,  officer?" 

"Well,  your  honor,  I  don't  know.  I've  seen  her  in  the 
street  once  or  twice,  and  from  the  way  she  was  behavin',  your 
honor,  I  thought  she  needed  watchin'." 

"Never  caught  her,  though,  officer?" 

No,  your  honor,  this  is  the  first  time." 

"Hm,"  said  his  honor. 

Now  the  lawyer  was  talking.  What  was  he  saying?  What 
was  the  matter?  Blanche  was  a  good  girl.  Why  they  arrest 
her? 

"Shh,  Paula,  shh!  Mus'n't."  She  held  the  child  closer 
to  her  heavy  bosom.  Hungry.  But  it  must  wait.  Pretty 
soon. 

He  was  a  nice  judge.  "All  right,"  he  said,  you  can  go, 
Blanche.  But  if  they  bring  you  in  again  it'll  be  the  House  of 

199 


the  Good  Shepherd.  Remember  that.  Fll  let  you  go  on 
account  of  her.*' 

A  nice  judge.  "Thank  you,  thank  you,  judge.  Shh, 
Paula!  Goo-by." 

Now  she  would  find  out.  She  would  ask  Blanche.  They 
could  talk  aloud  in  the  hallway. 

"Blanche,  come  here/*  A  note  of  authority  came  into 
the  woman's  voice.  A  girl  of  eighteen  walking  at  her  side 
turned  a  rouged,  tear-stained  face. 

"Aw,  don't  bother  me,  ma.     I  got  enough  trouble.** 

"What  was  the  matter  with  the  policeman?'* 

"Aw,  he's  a  boob.     That's  all." 

"But  what  they  arrest  you  for,  Blanche?  I  knew  it  was  a 
mistake.  But  what  they  arrest  you  for,  Blanche?  I  gave  him 
$10." 

"Aw,  shut  up!     Don't  bother  me." 

The  woman  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  turned  to  the 
child  in  her  arms. 

"Da-ah-ah,  Paula.  Mamma  feed  you  right  away.  Soon 
we  find  place  to  sit  down.  Shh,  Paula!  Mus'n't.  Da-ah-ah — " 

When  she  looked  up  Blanche  had  vanished.  She  stood 
still  for  a  while  and  then,  holding  the  year-old  child  closer 
to  her,  walked  toward  the  elevator.  There  was  nothing  to  see 
in  her  eyes. 


CLOCKS   AND   OWL  CARS 

As  they  say  in  the  melodramas,  the  city  sleeps.  Windows 
have  said  good-night  to  one  another.  Rooftops  have  tucked 
themselves  away.  The  pavements  are  still.  People  have 
vanished.  The  darkness  sweeping  like  a  great  broom  through 
the  streets  has  emptied  them. 

The  clock  in  the  window  of  a  real  estate  office  say* 
"Two."  A  few  windows  down  another  clock  says  "Ten  min 
utes  after  two." 

The  newspaper  man  waiting  for  a  Sheffield  Avenue  owl 
car  walks  along  to  the  next  corner,  listening  for  the  sound 
of  car  wheels  and  looking  at  the  clocks.  The  clocks  all  disagree. 
They  all  hang  ticking  with  seemingly  identical  and  indisputable 
precision.  Their  white  faces  and  their  black  numbers  speak 
in  the  dark  of  the  empty  stores.  "Tick-tock,  Time  never 
sleeps.  Time  keeps  moving  the  hands  of  the  city's  clocks 
around  and  around." 

Alas,  when  clocks  disagree  what  hope  is  there  for  less 
methodical  mechanisms,  particularly  such  humpty-dumpty 
mechanisms  as  tick  away  inside  the  owners  of  clocks?  The 
newspaper  man  must  sigh.  These  clocks  in  the  windows  of 
the  empty  stores  along  Sheffield  Avenue  seem  to  be  arguing. 
They  present  their  arguments  calmly,  like  meticulous  profes 
sors.  They  say:  "Eight  minutes  of  two.  Three  minutes  of 
two.  Two.  Four  minutes  after  two.  Ten  minutes  after  two." 

Thus  the  confusions  of  the  day  persist  even  after  the 
darkness  has  swept  the  streets  clean  of  people.  There  being 
nobody  else  to  dispute,  the  clocks  take  it  up  and  dispute  the 
hour  among  themselves. 

The  newspaper  man  pauses  in  front  of  one  half-hidden 
clock.  It  says  "Six."  Obviously  here  is  a  clock  not  running. 
Its  hands  have  stopped  and  it  no  longer  ticks.  But,  thinks  the 
newspaper  man,  it  is  not  to  be  despised  for  that.  At  least  it 
is  the  only  clock  in  the  neighborhood  that  achieves  perfect 

201 


accuracy.  Twice  a  day  while  all  the  other  clocks  in  the  street 
are  disputing  and  arguing,  this  particular  clock  says  "Six"  and 
of  all  the  clocks  it  alone  is  precisely  accurate. 

In  the  distance  a  yellow  light  swings  like  an  idle  lantern 
over  the  car  tracks.  So  the  newspaper  man  stops  at  the  corner 
and  waits.  This  is  the  owl  car.  It  may  not  stop.  Sometimes 
cars  have  a  habit  of  roaring  by  with  an  insulting  indifference 
to  the  people  waiting  for  them  to  stop  at  the  corner.  At  such 
moments  one  feels  a  fine  rage,  as  if  life  itself  had  insulted  one. 
There  have  been  instances  of  men  throwing  bricks  through  the 
windows  of  cars  that  wouldn't  stop  and  cheerfully  going  to 
jail  for  the  crime. 

But  this  car  stops.  It  comes  to  a  squealing  halt  that  must 
contribute  grotesquely  to  the  dreams  of  the  sleepers  in  Sheffield 
Avenue.  The  night  is  cool.  As  the  car  stands  silent  for  a 
moment  it  becomes,  with  its  lighted  windows  and  its  gay  paint, 
like  some  modernized  version  of  the  barque  in  which  Jason 
journeyed  on  his  quest. 

The  seats  are  half  filled.  The  newspaper  man  stands  on 
the  platform  with  the  conductor  and  stares  at  the  passengers. 
The  conductor  is  an  elderly  man  with  an  unusually  mild  face. 

The  people  in  the  car  try  to  sleep.  Their  heads  try  to 
make  use  of  the  window  panes  for  pillows.  Or  they  prop  their 
chins  up  in  their  palms  or  they  are  content  to  nod.  There  are 
several  young  men  whose  eyes  are  reddened.  A  young  woman 
in  a  cheap  but  fancy  dress.  And  several  middle-aged  men. 
All  of  them  look  bored  and  tired.  And  all  of  them  present  a 
bit  of  mystery. 

Who  are  these  passengers  through  the  night >  And  what 
has  kept  them  up?  And  where  are  they  going  or  coming 
from?  The  newspaper  man  has  half  a  mind  to  inquire.  Instead 
he  picks  on  the  conductor,  and  as  the  car  bounces  gayly 
through  the  dark,  cavernous  streets  the  mild-faced  conductor 
lends  himself  to  a  conversation. 

202 


"I  been  on  this  line  for  six  years.  Always  on  the  owl 
car,"  he  says.  "I  like  it  better  than  the  day  shift.  I  was  mar 
ried,  but  my  wife  died  and  I  don't  find  much  to  do  with  my 
evenings,  anyway. 

"No,  I  don't  know  any  of  these  people,  except  there's  a 
couple  of  workingmen  who  I  take  home  on  the  next  trip. 
Mostly  they're  always  strangers.  They've  been  out  having  a 
good  time,  I  suppose.  It's  funny  about  them.  I  always  feel 
sorry  for  *em.  Yes,  sir,  you  can't  help  it. 

"There's  some  that's  been  out  drinking  or  hanging  around 
with  women  and  when  they  get  on  the  car  they  sort  of  slide 
down  in  their  seats  and  you  feel  like  there  was  nothing  much 
to  what  they'd  been  doing.  Pessimistic?  No,  I  ain't  pessi 
mistic.  If  you  was  ridin'  this  car  like  I  you'd  see  what  I  mean. 

"It's  like  watchin'  people  afterwards.  I  mean  after 
they've  done  things.  They  always  seem  worse  off  then.  I 
suppose  it's  because  they're  all  sleepy.  But  standin*  here  of 
nights  I  feel  that  it's  more  than  that.  They're  tired  sure  enough 
but  they're  also  feeling  that  things  ain't  what  they're  cracked 
up  to  be. 

"I  seldom  put  anybody  off.  The  drunks  are  pretty  sad 
and  I  feel  sorry  for  them.  They  just  flop  over  and  I  wake 
them  up  when  it  comes  their  time.  Sometimes  there's  girls 
and  they  look  pretty  sad.  And  sometimes  something  really 
inter estin*  comes  off.  Once  there  was  a  lady  who  was  cryin' 
and  hold  in'  a  baby.  On  the  third  run  it  was.  I  could  see 
she'd  up  and  left  her  house  all  of  a  sudden  on  account  of  a 
quarrel  with  her  husband,  because  she  was  only  half  buttoned 
together. 

"And  once  there  was  a  man  whose  pictures  I  see  in  the 
papers  the  next  day  as  having  committed  suicide.  I  remem 
bered  him  in  a  minute.  Well,  no,  he  didn't  look  like  he  was 
going  to  commit  suicide.  He  looked  just  about  like  all  the 
other  passengers — tired  and  sleepy  and  sort  of  down." 

203 


The  mild-faced  conductor  helped  one  of  his  passengers 
off. 

* 'Don't  you  ever  wonder  what  keeps  these  people  out  or 
where  they're  going  at  this  time  of  night?'*  the  newspaper 
man  pursued  as  the  car  started  up  again. 

"Well,"  said  the  conductor,  "not  exactly.  I've  got  it 
figured  out  there's  nothing  much  to  that  and  that  they're  all 
kind  of  alike.  They've  been  to  parties  or  callin'  on  their  girls 
or  just  got  restless  or  somethin'.  What's  the  difference?  All 
I  can  say  about  'em  is  that  you  get  so  after  years  you  feel  sorry 
for  'em  all.  And  they're  all  alike — people  as  ride  on  the  night 
run  cars  are  just  more  tired  than  the  people  I  remember  used 
to  ride  on  the  day  run  cars  I  was  on  before  my  wife  died." 

The  clock  in  a  candy  store  window  says  "Three- twelve." 
A  few  windows  down,  another  clock  says  "Three-five."  The 
newspaper  man  walks  to  his  home  studying  the  clocks.  They 
all  disagree  as  before.  And  yet  their  faces  are  all  identical — 
as  identical  as  the  faces  of  the  owl  car  passengers  seem  to  the 
conductor.  And  here  is  a  clock  that  has  stopped.  It  says 
"Twenty  after  four."  And  the  newspaper  man  thinks  of  the 
picture  the  conductor  identified  in  the  papers  the  next  morning. 
The  picture  said  something  like  "Twenty  after  four"  at  the 
wrong  time.  It's  all  a  bit  mixed  up. 


CONFESSIONS 

The  rain  mutters  in  the  night  and  the  pavements  like  dark 
mirrors  are  alive  with  impressionistic  cartoons  of  the  city. 
The  little,  silent  street  with  its  darkened  store  windows  and 
rain-veiled  arc  lamps  is  as  lonely  as  a  far-away  train  whistle. 

Over  the  darkened  stores  are  stone  and  wooden  flat 
buildings.  Here,  too,  the  lights  have  gone  out.  People  sleep. 
The  rain  falls.  The  gleaming  pavements  amuse  themselves 
with  reflections. 

I  have  an  hour  to  wait.  From  the  musty  smelling  hall 
way  where  I  stand  the  scene  is  like  an  old  print — an  old  Lon 
don  print — that  I  have  always  meant  to  buy  and  put  in  a 
frame  but  have  never  found. 


Writing  about  people  when  one  is  alone  under  an  electric 
lamp,  and  thinking  about  people  when  one  stands  watching  the 
rain  in  the  dark  streets,  are  two  different  diversions.  When  one 
writes  under  an  electric  lamp  one  pompously  marshals  ideas; 
one  remembers  the  things  people  say  and  do  and  believe  in, 
and  slowly  these  things  replace  people  in  one's  mind.  One 
thinks  (in  the  calm  of  one's  study)  :  "So-and-so  is  a  Puritan 
....  he  is  viciously  afraid  of  anything  which  will  disturb 
the  idealized  version  of  himself  in  which  he  believes — and 
wants  other  people  to  believe.  .  .  .**  Yes,  one  thinks  So- 
and-so  is  this  and  So-and-so  is  that.  And  it  all  seems  very 
simple.  People  focus  into  clearly  outlined  ideas — definitions. 
And  one  can  sit  back  and  belabor  them,  hamstring  them,  pull 
their  noses,  expose  their  absurdities  and  derive  a  deal  of  sat 
isfaction  from  the  process.  Iconoclasm  is  easy  and  warming 
under  an  electric  light  in  one's  study. 

But  in  the  rain  at  night,  in  the  dark  street  staring  at  dark 
ened  windows,  watching  the  curious  reflections  in  the  pave 
ments — it  is  different  in  the  rain.  The  night  mutters  and  whis 
pers. 

206 


"People/*  one  thinks,  "tired,  silent  people  sleeping  in  the 
dark." 

Ideas  do  not  come  so  easily  or  so  clearly.  The  ennobling 
angers  which  are  the  emotion  of  superiority  in  the  iconoclast 
do  not  rise  so  spontaneously.  And  one  does  not  say  "People 
are  this  and  people  are  that.  .  .  .'*  No,  one  pauses  and 
stares  at  the  dark  chatter  of  the  rain  and  a  curious  silence 
saddens  one's  mind. 

Life  is  apart  from  ideas.  And  the  things  that  people  say 
and  believe  in  and  for  which  they  die  and  in  behalf  of  which 
they  invent  laws  and  codes — these  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  insides  of  people.  Puritan,  hypocrite,  criminal,  dolt — 
these  are  paper-thin  masks.  It  is  diverting  to  rip  them  in  the 
calm  of  one's  study. 

Life  that  warms  the  trees  into  green  in  the  summer,  that 
sends  birds  circling  through  the  air,  that  spreads  a  tender, 
passionate  glow  over  even  the  most  barren  wastes — people 
are  but  one  of  its  almost  too  many  children.  The  dark,  the 
rain,  the  lights,  people  asleep  in  bed,  the  wind,  the  snow  that 
will  fall  tomorrow,  the  ice,  flowers,  sunlight,  country  roads, 
pavements  and  stars — all  these  are  the  same.  Through  all 
of  them  life  sends  its  intimate  and  sacred  breath. 

One  becomes  aware  of  such  curious  facts  in  the  rain  at 
night  and  one's  iconoclasm,  like  a  broken  umbrella,  hangs 
useless  from  one's  hand.  Tomorrow  these  people  who  are 
now  asleep  will  be  stirring,  giving  vent  to  outrageous  ideas, 
championing  incredulous  banalities,  prostrating  themselves 
before  imbecile  superstitions.  Tomorrow  they  will  rise  and 
begin  forthwith  to  lie,  quibble,  cheat,  steal,  fourflush  and  kill, 
each  and  all  inspired  by  the  solacing  monomania  that  every 
one  of  their  words  and  gestures  is  a  credible  variant  of  perfec 
tion.  Yes,  tomorrow  they  will  be  as  they  were  yesterday. 

But  in  this  rain  at  night  they  rest  from  their  perfections, 
they  lay  aside  for  a  few  hours  their  paper  masks.  And  one 
can  contemplate  them  with  a  curious  absence  of  indignation 

207 


or  criticism.  There  is  something  warm  and  intimate  about 
the  vision  of  many  people  sleeping  in  the  beds  above  the  dark 
ened  store  fronts  of  this  little  street.  Their  bodies  have  been  in 
the  world  so  long — almost  as  long  as  the  stones  out  of  which 
their  houses  are  made.  So  many  things  have  happened  to 
them,  so  many  debacles  and  monsters  and  horrors  have  swept 
them  off  their  feet.  .  .  .  and  always  they  have  kept  on — 
persisting  through  floods,  volcanic  eruptions,  plagues  and  wars. 
Heroic  and  incredible  people.  Endlessly  belaboring 
themselves  with  ideas,  gods,  taboos,  and  philosophies.  Yet 
here  they  are,  still  in  this  silent  little  street.  The  world  has 
grown  old.  Trees  have  decayed  and  races  died  out.  But  here 
above  the  darkened  store  fronts  lies  the  perpetual  miracle 
....  People  in  whom  life  streams  as  naive  and  intimate  as 
ever. 

Yes,  it  is  to  life  and  not  people  one  makes  one's  obei 
sance.  Toward  life  no  iconoclasm  is  possible,  for  even  that 
which  is  in  opposition  to  its  beauty  and  horror  must  of  neces 
sity  be  a  part  of  them. 

It  rains.  The  arc  lamps  gleam  through  the  monotonous 
downpour.  One  can  only  stand  and  dream.  .  .  .  how 
charming  people  are  since  they  are  alive.  .  .  .  how  charm 
ing  the  rain  is  and  the  night.  .  .  .  And  how  foolish  argu 
ments  are.  .  .  .  how  banal  are  these  cerebral  monsters  who 
pose  as  iconoclasts  and  devote  themselves  grandiloquently  and 
inanely  to  disturbing  the  paper  masks.  .  .  . 

I  walk  away  from  the  musty  smelling  hallway.  A  dog 
steps  tranquilly  out  of  the  shadows  nearby.  He  surveys  the 
street  and  the  rain  with  a  proprietary  calm. 

It  would  be  amusing  to  walk  in  the  rain  with  a  strange 
dog.  I  whistle  softly  and  reassuringly  to  him.  He  pauses  and 
turns  his  head  toward  ime,  surveying  me  with  an  air  of  vague 
discomfort.  What  do  I  want  of  him?  ....  he  thinks  .... 

208 


who  am  I?  ••  .  .  .  'have  I  any  authority?  ....  what  will 
happen  to  him  if  he  doesn't  obey  the  whistle? 

Thus  he  stands  hestitating.  Perhaps,  too,  I  will  give  him 
shelter,  a  kindness  never  to  be  despised.  A  moment  ago,  be 
fore  I  whistled,  this  dog  was  tranquil  and  happy  in  the  rain, 
Now  he  has  changed.  He  turns  fully  around  and  approaches 
me,  a  slight  cringe  in  his  walk.  The  tranquillity  has  left  him. 
At  the  sound  of  my  whistle  he  has  grown  suddenly  tired  and 
lonely  and  the  night  and  rain  no  longer  lure  him.  He  has 
found  another  companionship. 

And  so  together  we  walk  for  a  distance,  this  dog  and  I, 
wondering  about  each  other.  .  .  . 


AN  IOWA  HUMORESQUE 

In  a  room  at  the  Auditorium  Hotel  a  group  of  men  and 
women  connected  with  the  opera  were  having  tea.  As  they 
drank  out  of  the  fragile  cups  and  nibbled  at  the  little  cakes 
they  boasted  to  each  other  of  their  love  affairs. 

"And  I  had  the  devil  of  a  time  getting  rid  of  her,"  was 
the  motif  of  the  men's  conversation.  The  women  said,  "And 
I  just  couldn't  shake  him.  It  was  awful.** 

There  was  one — an  American  prima  donna — who  grew 
pensive  as  the  amorous  boasting  increased.  An  opulent  woman 
past  35,  dark-haired,  great-eyed;  a  robust  enchantress  with 
a  sweep  to  her  manner.  Her  beauty  was  an  exaggeration. 
Exaggerated  contours,  colors,  features  that  needed  perspective 
to  set  them  off.  Diluted  by  distance  and  bathed  by  the  foot 
lights  she  focused  prettily  into  a  Manon,  a  Thais,  an  Isolde. 
But  in  the  room  drinking  tea  she  had  the  effect  of  a  too 
startling  close-up— a  rococo  siren  cramped  for  space. 

The  barytone  leaned  unctuously  across  the  small  table 
and  said  to  her  with  a  preposterous  archness  of  manner: 

"And  how  does  it  happen,  my  dear,  that  you  have  nothing 
to  tell  us?" 

"Because  she  has  too  much,"  said  one  of  the  orchestra 
men,  laughingly. 

The  prima  donna  smiled. 

"Oh,  I  can  tell  a  story  as  well  as  anybody,**  she  said.  "In 
fact,  I  was  just  thinking  of  one.  You  know  I  was  in  Iowa 
last  month.  And  I  visited  the  town  where  I  was  born  and 
lived  as  a  girl — until  I  was  nineteen.  It's  funny.*' 

Again  the  pensive  stare  out  of  the  window  at  the  chill- 
looking  autumn  sky  and  the  sharp  outlines  of  the  city  roofs. 

"Go  on,"  her  hostess  cried.  To  her  guests  she  added, 
in  the  social  curtain-raiser  manner  peculiar  to  rambunctious 
hostesses,  "if  Mugs  tells  anything  about  herself  you  can  be 
sure  it'll  be  something  immense.  Go  on,  Mugs.*'  Mugs  is 

210 


one  of  the  nicknames  the  prima  donna  is  known  by  among  her 
'friends. 

"We  went  to  school  together/*  the  prima  donna  smiled, 
"John  and  I.  And  I  don't  think  I've  ever  loved  anybody  as  I 
loved  him.  He  used  to  frighten  me  to  death.  You  see,  I  was 
ambitious.  I  wanted  to  be  somebody.  And  John  wanted  me 
to  marry  him.  Somehow  marriage  wasn't  what  I  wanted 
then.  There  were  other  things.  I  had  started  singing  and 
at  night  I  used  to  lie  awake,  not  wanting  to  sleep.  I  was  so 
taken  up  with  my  dreams  and  plans  that  I  hated  to  lose  con 
sciousness.  That's  a  fact. 

"Well,  John  grew  more  and  more  insistent.  And  one 
evening  he  came  to  call  on  me.  I  was  alone  on  the  porch. 
John  was  about  twenty-three  then.  That~was~  about,  twenty 
years  ago.  He  was  a  tall,  good-looking,  sharp-faced  young 
man  with  lively  eyes.  I  thought  him  marvelous  at  the  time. 
And  he  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  porch  and  talked  to  me.  1 
never  forgot  a  word  he  said.  I  have  never  heard  anything  so 
wonderful  since." 

The  barytone  shrugged  his  shoulders  politely  and  said 
"Hm!" 

"Oh,  I  know,"  smiled  the  prima  donna,  "you're  the 
Great  Lover  and  all  that.  But  you  never  could  talk  as  John 
did  that  evening  on  the  porch — in  Iowa.  He  stood  there  and 
said,  'Mugs,  you're  going  to  regret  this  moment  for  the  rest  of 
your  life.  There'll  be  nights  when  you'll  wake  up  shivering 
and  crying  and  you'll  want  to  kill  yourself.  Why?  Because 
you  didn't  marry  me.  Because  you  had  your  chance  to  marry 
me  and  turned  it  down.  Remember.  Remember  how  I'm 
standing  here  talking  to  you — unknown — a  country  boy. 
Remember  that  when  you  hear  of  me  again.' 

"  'What  are  you  going  to  do?*  I  asked. 

"I'm  going  to  be  president  of  the  United  States,*  he  said. 
And  he  said  it  so  that  there  was  truth  in  it.  As  I  looked  at 
him  standing  on  the  steps  I  felt  frightened  to  death.  There 

211 


he  was,  going  to  be  president  of  the  United  States,  and  there 
was  I,  throwing  the  greatest  chance  in  the  world  away.  He 
knew  I  believed  him  and  that  made  it  worse.  He  went  on 
talking  in  a  sort  of  oracular  singsong  that  drove  me  mad. 

4  Tm  not  asking  you  again.  You've  had  your  chance, 
Mugs.  And  you've  thrown  it  away.  All  right.  It'll  not  be 
said  afterward  that  John  Marcey  made  a  fool  of  himself. 
Good-bye.'  ' 

The  prima  donna  sighed.  "Yes,"  she  went  on,  looking 
into  her  empty  teacup;  "it  was  good-bye.  He  walked  away, 
erect,  his  shoulders  high,  his  body  swinging.  And  I  sat  there 
shivering.  I  had  turned  down  a  president  of  the  United  States! 
Me,  a  gawky  little  Iowa  girl.  And,  what  was  worse,  I  was  in 
love  with  him,  too.  Well,  I  remember  sitting  on  the  porch 
till  the  folks  came  home  from  prayer  meeting  and  I  remember 
going  to  bed  and  lying  awake  all  night,  crying  and  shivering. 

"I  didn't  see  John  Marcey  again.  I  stayed  only  a  week 
longer  and  then  I  came  to  Chicago  to  study  music.  My  folks 
were  able  to  finance  me  for  a  time.  But  I  never  forgot  him. 
It  was  John  who  had  started  me  for  Chicago.  And  it  was 
John  who  kept  me  practicing  eight  hours  a  day,  studying  and 
practicing  until  I  thought  I'd  drop. 

"I  was  going  to  make  good.  When  he  became  president 
I  was  going  to  be  somebody.  I  wasn't  going  to  do  what  he 
said  I  would,  wake  up  cursing  myself  and  remembering  my 
lost  chance.  So  I  went  right  on  working  my  head  off  and 
finally  it  was  Paris  and  finally  it  was  a  job  in  London.  And  I 
never  stopped  working. 

"But  the  funny  part  was  that  I  gradually  forgot  about 
John  Marcey.  When  I  had  arrived  as  an  opera  singer  he  was 
entirely  dead  for  me.  But  last  month  I  visited  my  home  town. 
I  was  passing  through  and  couldn't  resist  getting  off  and  looking 
up  people  I  knew  as  a  girl.  My  folks  are  dead,  you  know. 

"And  when  I  walked  down  the  street — the  same  old 
funny  little  Main  Street — I  remembered  John  Marcey.  And, 

212 


would  you  believe  it,  that  same  feeling  of  fear  came  back  to 
me  as  I'd  had  that  night  on  the  porch  when  he  made  his 
'remember*  speech.  I  got  curious  as  the  devil  about  John  and 
felt  afraid  to  inquire.  But  finally  I  was  talking  to  an  old,  old 
man  who  runs  the  drug-store  on  the  corner  of  Main  and  Sixth 
streets  there.  I'd  recognized  him  through  the  window  and 
gone  inside  and  shaken  hands;  and  I  asked  him: 

*  'Do  you  remember  John  Marcey?* 

*  'Marcey — Marcey?*  he  repeated.   'Oh,  yes.   Old  Marse. 
Why,  yes.     Sure/     And  he  kept  nodding  his  head.     Then  I 
asked  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  'What's  become  of  him?* 
And  the  old  druggist  who  was  looking  out  of  his  store  window 
adjusted  his  glasses  and  pointed  with  his  finger.      'There  he 
is.     There  he  is.     Wait  a  minute.     I'll  call  him.* 

"And  there  was  John,  my  president  of  the  United  States, 
hunched  over  on  the  seat  of  a  garbage  wagon  driving  a  woe 
begone  nag  down  the  street.  I  grabbed  hold  of  the  druggist 
and  said,  'Don't,  I'll  see  him  later.' 

"Well,  I  couldn't  stay  in  that  town  another  minute.  I 
hurried  to  the  station  and  waited  for  the  next  train  and  kept 
thinking  of  John  driving  his  garbage  wagon,  and  his  battered 
felt  hat  and  his  hangdog  face  until  I  thought  I'd  go  mad. 

"That's  all,**  laughed  the  prima  donna,  "That's  my  love 
story.**  And  she  stared  pensively  into  the  empty  teacup  as 
the  barytone  moved  a  bit  closer  and  began: 

"I'll  tell  you  about  a  Spanish  girl  I  met  in  Prague  that'll 
interest  you—** 


THE  EXILE 

The  newspaper  man  told  the  story  apropos  of  nothing  at 
all.  There  was  a  pause  in  the  talk  among  the  well-dressed 
dinner  guests.  A  very  satisfied-looking  man  said: 

"Well,  thank  God,  this  radical  excitement  is  over.** 
.     Every  one  agreed  it  was  fortunate  and  the  newspaper 
man,   an  insufferably  garrulous  person,    interjected:      "That 
reminds  me  of  Bill  Haywood." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  hostess,  "he  was  the  leader  of  all 
that  terrible  thing,  wasn't  he?" 

"He  was,"  said  the  newspaper  man.  "I  knew  him  fairly 
well.  I  covered  the  I.  W.  W.  trial  in  Judge  Landis*  court, 
where  he  and  a  hundred  or  so  others  were  sent  to  prison." 

"What  was  the  charge  against  them?"  inquired  the  satis- 
fled  one. 

"I  forget,**  said  the  newspaper  man,  "but  I  remember 
Haywood.  The  trial,  of  course,  had  something  to  do  with 
the  war.  The  war  was  going  on  then,  you  remember." 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  exclaimed  the  hostess.  "It  will  take 
a  long  time  to  forget  the  war."  And  her  eyes  brightened. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  us  about  the  I.  W.  W.  trial,"  pur 
sued  the  hostess  a  few  minutes  later. 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  much  about  that,"  said  the  news 
paper  man.  "I  was  principally  interested  in  Bill  Haywood 
for  a  moment.  You  know  they  sent  him  to  jail  for  twenty 
years  or  so.  Anyway,  that  was  his  sentence." 

''The  scoundrel  ran  away,"  said  the  very  satisfied  one. 
"Funny  they  should  let  a  man  as  unprincipled  and  dangerous 
as  Haywood  slip  through  their  hands  after  sending  him  to  jail." 

"Yes,  they  let  him  escape  to  Russia,  of  all  places,**  de 
clared  the  hostess  with  indignation.  "Where  he  could  do  the 
most  harm.  Oh,  the  government  is  so  stupid  at  times  it  simply 
drives  one  furious.  Or  makes  you  laugh.  Doesn't  it?** 

214 


"Yes,  he  skipped  his  bond  or  something,"  said  the  news 
paper  man,  "and  became  an  exile.'* 

The  satisfied  one  snorted. 

"Exile I"  he  derided.  "You  don't  call  a  man  an  exile 
who  runs  away  from  a  country  he  has  always  despised  and 
fought  against?" 

"The  last  time  I  saw  him,"  went  on  the  newspaper  man, 
as  if  he  were  unruffled,  "was  about  four  or  five  days  before 
he  disappeared.  I  was  surprised  to  see  him.  I  thought  he 
was  serving  his  time  in  jail.  I  hadn't  been  following  the  ins 
and  outs  and  I  wasn't  aware  he  had  got  appeals  and  things 
and  was  still  at  large." 

"Yes,"  said  the  satisfied  one,  "that's  the  trouble  with  this 
country.  Too  lenient  toward  these  scoundrels.  As  if  they 
were  entitled  to — " 

"Justice,"  murmured  the  newspaper  man.  "Quite  so. 
Our  enemies  are  not  entitled  to  justice.  It  is  one  of  my  oldest 
notions." 

"But  tell  us  about  what  this  Haywood  said,"  pursued  the 
hostess.  "It  must  have  been  funny  meeting  him." 

"It  was,"  said  the  newspaper  man.  "It  was  at  the  Colum 
bia  theater  between  acts  in  the  evening.  I  had  gone  to  see  a 
burlesque  show  there.  And  between  acts  I  was  on  the  mezza 
nine  floor.  I  went  out  to  get  a  glass  of  water. 

"As  I  was  coming  back  whom  do  I  see  leaning  against 
the  railing  but  old  Bill  Haywood.  I  hadn't  seen  him  for  about 
two  years,  I  guess.  But  he  hadn't  changed  an  iota.  The  same 
crooked-lipped  smile.  And  his  one  eye  staring  ahead  of  him 
with  a  mildly  amused  light  in  it.  A  rather  striking  person  was 
Bill.  I  suppose  it  was  because  he  always  seemed  so  calm 
outside. 

"He  remembered  me  and  when  I  said  hello  to  him  he 
called  me  by  name  and  I  walked  to  his  side.  I  started  talking 
and  said:  'Well,  what  are  you  doing  here?  I  thought  you  were 
serving  time  in  six  jails.' 

215 


4  'Not  yet,'  said  Haywood,  'but  in  a  few  days.     The  sen-' 
tence  starts  next  week/ 
4  'Twenty  years?* 
'  'Oh,  something  like  that/ 

"Well/*  said  the  newspaper  man,  "I  suddenly  remem 
bered  that  he  was  in  a  theater  and  I  got  kind  of  curious.  I 
asked  what  he  was  doing  in  the  theater  and  he  looked  at  me 
and  grinned. 

*  Tm  all  in/  he  said.     'Been  going  the  pace  for  about 
a  month  now.     Out  every  night.     Taking  in  all  the  glad  spots 
and  high  spots/ 

"This  was  so  curious  coming  from  Big  Bill  that  I  looked 
surprised.  And  he  went  on  talking.  Yes,  sir,  this  Big  Bill 
Haywood,  the  terror  of  organized  society,  was  saying  good 
bye  to  his  native  land  as  if  he  were  a  sentimental  playboy.  He 
wasn't  going  to  jail  because  by  that  time  he  had  all  his  plans 
matured  for  his  escape  to  Russia. 

"But  he  knew  he  was  going  to  leave  the  country  and  per 
haps  never  come  back  again.  So  he  was  making  the  rounds. 

*  'I've  been  to  almost  every  show  in  town/  he  went  on 
talking,  'all  the  musical  comedies,  all  the  dramas,  all  the  west 
side  melodramas.     I've  been  to  almost  all  the  cafes,  the  swell 
ones  with  the  monkey-suit  waiters  and  the  old  ones  I've  known 
myself  for  years.     I  drew  up  a  list  of  all  these  places  in  town 
about  a  month  ago  and  I've  been  following  a  schedule  ever 
since/ 

"I  asked  him,"  said  the  newspaper  man,  "if  he  liked  the 
plays  he'd  seen.  Bill  grinned  at  that. 

"  'It  ain't  that/  said  Bill.  'No,  it  ain't  that.  It's  only 
seeing  them.  You  know,  there's  nothing  like  these  kind  of 
things  anywhere  else  in  the  world/ 

"And  then  the  theater  got  dark  and  we  said  good-bye 
casually  and  went  to  our  different  seats.  I  didn't  see  Haywood 
again.  About  a  week  or  so  later  I  read  the  headline  that  he 

216 


tiad  fled  the  country.  Nobody  knew  where  he  was,  but  peo 
ple  suspected.  And  then  two  weeks  after  that  there  was  the 
story  that  he  had  reached  Russia  and  was  in  Moscow. 

"Well,  when  I  read  that,"  said  the  newspaper  man,  *1 
remembered  all  of  a  sudden  how  he  had  stood  leaning  against 
the  railing  at  the  Columbia  theater  saying  good-bye  to  some 
thing.  Making  the  rounds  for  a  month  saying  good-bye  in  his 
own  way  to  all  the  places  he  would  never  see  again.  Kind  of 
odd,  I  thought,  for  Bill  Haywood  to  do  that.  That  isn't  the 
way  Nietzsche  would  have  written  a  radical.  But  Dickens 
might  have  written  it  that  way,  like  Bill. 

"That's  why  whenever  I  see  his  name  in  print  now,"  pur 
sued  the  newspaper  man,  "I  always  think  of  the  burlesque 
chorus  on  the  stage  kicking  their  legs  and  yodeling  jazzily  and 
Big  Bill  Haywood  staring  with  his  one  eye,  saying  good-bye 
with  his  one  eye. 

"Tell  me  he's  not  an  exile!"  laughed  the  newspaper  man 
suddenly. 


ON  A   DAY  LIKE  THIS 

On  a  day  like  this,  he  says,  on  a  day  like  this,  when  the 
wind  plays  cello  music  across  the  rooftops.  ...  I  think 
about  things.  The  town  is  like  a  fireless,  dimly  lighted  room. 
Yesterday  the  windows  sparkled  with  sunlight.  To-day  they 
stare  like  little  coffin  tops. 

On  a  day  like  this,  he  says,  on  this  sort  of  a  day  I  walk 
along  smoking  a  pipe  and  wonder  what  I  was  excited  about 
yesterday.  Then  I  remember,  he  says,  that  once  it  rained 
yesterday  and  I  waited  under  the  awning  till  it  ended.  I  re 
member,  he  says,  that  once  I  walked  swiftly  down  this  street 
toward  a  building  on  the  corner.  It  was  vastly  important 
that  I  reach  this  building.  I  remember,  he  says,  that  there 
were  days  I  hurried  down  Clark  Street  and  days  I  ran  down 
Monroe  Street.  Now  it  is  windy  again.  There  is  long  silence 
over  the  noises  of  the  street.  The  sky  looks  empty  and  old. 

There  were  people  gathered  around  an  automobile  that 
had  bumped  into  the  curbing.  I  stopped  to  watch  them,  he 
says.  There  was  a  man  next  to  me  with  a  heavy  gray  face, 
with  loose  lips  and  with  intent  eyes.  There  was  another  man 
and  another — dozens  of  men — all  of  them  people  who  had 
been  hurrying  in  the  street  to  get  somewhere.  And  here  they 
were  standing  and  looking  intently  at  an  automobile  with  a 
twisted  wheel. 

I  became  aware  that  we  were  all  looking  with  a  strange 
intensity  at  this  automobile;  that  we  all  stood  as  if  waiting  for 
something.  Dozens  of  men  hurrying  somewhere  suddenly  stop 
and  stand  for  ten,  twenty,  thirty  minutes  staring  at  a  broken 
automobile.  There  was  a  reason  for  this.  Always  where 
there  is  a  machine  at  work,  digging  or  hammering  piles,  where 
there  is  a  horse  fallen,  an  auto  crashed,  a  flapjack  turner,  a 
fountain  pen  demonstrator;  where  there  is  a  magic  clock  that 
runs,  nobody  knows  how,  or  a  window  puzzle  that  turns  in  a 

218 


drug-store  window  or  anything  that  moves  behind  plate  glass 
— always  where  there  is  any  one  of  these  things  there  are  peo 
ple  like  us  standing  riveted,  attentive,  unwavering. 

People  on  artificial  errands,  hurrying  like  obedient  autom 
ations  through  the  streets;  stern-faced  people  with  dignified 
eyes,  important-stepping  people  with  grave  decision  stamped 
upon  them;  careless,  innocuous-looking  people — all  these 
people  look  as  if  they  had  something  in  their  heads,  as  if  there 
were  things  of  import  driving  them  through  the  streets.  But 
this  is  an  error.  Nothing  in  their  heads.  They  are  like  the  fish 
that  swim  beneath  the  water — a  piece  of  shining  tin  captures 
their  eyes  and  they  pause  and  stare  at  it. 

The  broken  automobile  holds  their  eyes,  holds  them  all 
riveted  because — because  it  is  something  unordinary  to  look 
at,  to  think  about.  And  there  is  nothing  unordinary  to  look 
at  or  think  about  in  their  heads. 

And  I  too,  he  says,  on  this  day  when  the  wind  played 
cello  music  across  the  rooftops,  stood  in  the  crowd.  We  were 
all  children,  I  noticed,  more  than  that — infants.  Open- 
mouthed  infantile  wonder  staring  out  of  our  tired,  gray  faces. 
Men,  without  thought,  men  making  a  curious  little  confession 
in  the  busy  street  that  they  were  not  busy,  that  there  is  nothing 
in  life  at  the  moment  that  preoccupies  them — that  a  broken 
automobile  is  a  godsend,  a  diversion,  a  drama,  a  great  happi 
ness. 

I  smoked  my  pipe,  he  says,  and  began  to  wonder  again. 
Why  did  they  stare  like  this?  And  at  what?  And  who  were 
these  staring  ones?  And  what  was  it  in  them  that  stared?  I 
thought  of  this,  he  says.  Dead  dreams,  and  forgotten  defeats 
stood  staring  from  the  curb  at  the  broken  automobile.  Men 
who  had  survived  themselves,  who  had  become  compliant  and 
automatic  little  forces  in  the  engine  of  the  city — these  were 
ourselves  on  the  curb. 

219 


And  this  is  a  weary  thing  to  remember  about  the  city. 
When  I  am  tired,  he  says,  and  the  plot  of  which  I  am  hero, 
villain  and  Greek  chorus  suddenly  vanish  from  my  mind,  I 
pause  and  look  at  something  behind  plate  glass.  A  bauble 
catches  my  eye.  Long  minutes,  half  hours  pass.  There  is  a 
marvelous  plentitude  of  baubles  to  look  at.  Machines  dig 
ging,  excavations,  scaffoldings,  advertisements,  never  are 
lacking. 

And  at  such  times  I  begin  to  notice  how  many  of  us  there 
are.  The  hurry  of  the  streets  is  an  illusion.  The  noises  that 
rise  in  clouds,  and  the  too-many  suits  of  clothes  and  hats 
that  sweep  by — all  these  things  are  part  of  an  illusion.  The 
fact  drifts  through  my  tired  senses  that  there  is  an  amazing 
silence  in  the  street — the  silence  inside  of  people's  heads. 
Everywhere  I  look  I  find  these  busy  ones,  these  energetic  ones 
stopped  and  standing  like  myself  before  a  bauble  in  a  window, 
before  a  broken  automobile. 

Of  people,  authors  always  make  great  plots.  Authors 
always  write  of  adventures  and  intrigues,  of  emotions  and 
troubles  and  ideas  which  occupy  people.  People  fall  in  love, 
people  suffer  defeats,  people  experience  tragedies,  happinesses, 
and  there  is  no  end  to  the  action  of  people  in  books. 

But  here  is  a  curious  plot,  he  says,  on  a  day  like  this.  Here  | 
is  a  crowd  around  a  broken  automobile.  The  broken  auto 
mobile  has  trapped  them,  betrayed  them.  They  realize  the 
broken  automobile  as  a  "practical"  excuse  to  stop  walking, 
to  stop  moving,  to  stop  going  anywhere  or  being  anybody. 
Their  serious  concentration  on  the  broken  wheel  enables  them 
to  pretend  that  they  are  logically  interested  in  practical  mat 
ters.  Without  which  pretense  it  would  be  impossible  for  them 
to  exist.  Without  which  pretense  they  would  become  con 
sciously  dead.  They  must  always  seem,  to  themselves  as  well 
as  to  others,  logically  interested  in  something.  Yes,  always 
something. 

220 


But  the  plot  is — and  do  not  misunderstand  this,  he  cau 
tions — that  the  pretense  here  around  the  broken  automobile 
grows  shallow  enough  to  plumb.  There  is  nothing  here.  Two 
dozen  men  standing  dead  on  a  curbing,  tricked  into  confes 
sional  by  a  little  accident 

So  I  will  begin  a  book  tomorrow,  he  says,  and  empties 
his  pipe  as  he  talks,  which  will  have  to  do  with  the  make-be 
lieve  of  people  in  streets — the  make-believe  of  being  alive  and 
being  somebody  and  going  somewhere. 

And  saying  this,  this  garrulous  one  walks  off  with  a  high 
whistle  on  his  lips  and  a  grave  triumph  sitting  on  his  shoul 
ders. 


i          -i 


pni 

•*       .     .-!,»•".     --»»     >v-* 


-....-  .:SsN-   . 


V    * 


JAZZ    BAND    IMPRESSIONS 

The  trombone  player  has  a  straight  part.  He  umpah 
umps  with  the  conventional  trombone  fatalism.  Whatever 
the  tune,  whatever  the  harmonies,  trombone  umpah  umps  re 
gardless.  Umpah  ump  is  the  soul  of  all  things.  Cadenzas, 
glissandos,  arpeggios,  chromatics,  syncopations,  blue  melodies 
— these  are  the  embroidery  of  sound.  From  year  to  year  these 
change,  these  pass.  Only  the  umpah  ump  remains.  And  to 
night  the  trombone  player  plays  what  he  will  play  a  thousand 
nights  from  tonight — umpah  ump. 

The  bassoon  and  the  bull  fiddle — they  umpah  ump  along. 
Underneath  the  quaver  and  whine  of  the  jazz  they  beat  the 
time,  they  make  the  tuneless  rhythm.  The  feet  dancing  on  the 
crowded  cabaret  floor  listen  cautiously  for  the  trombone,  the 
bassoon  and  the  bull  fiddle.  They  have  a  liaison  with  the 
umpah  umps — the  feet.  Long  ago  they  danced  only  to  the 
umpah  umps.  There  were  no  cadenzas,  glissandos,  arpeggios 
then.  There  was  only  the  thumping  of  cedar  wood  on  cedar 
wood,  on  ebony  or  taut  deerskin. 

Civilizations  have  risen,  fallen  and  risen  again.  Armies, 
gods,  races  have  been  chewed  into  mist  by  the  years.  But 
the  thumping  remains.  The  feet  of  the  dancers  on  the  cabaret 
floor  keep  a  rendezvous  with  the  ebony  on  the  taut  deerskin, 
with  the  cedar  wood  beating  on  cedar  wood. 

The  clarinet  screeches,  wails,  moans  and  whistles.  The 
clarinet  flings  an  obbligato  high  over  the  heads  of  the  dancers 
on  the  cabaret  floor.  It  makes  shrill  sounds.  It  raves  like  a 
fireless  Ophelia.  It  plays  the  clown,  the  tragedian,  the  acrobat. 

A  whimsical  insanity  lurks  in  the  music  of  the  clarinet.  It 
stutters  ecstasies.  It  postures  like  Tristan  and  whimpers  like 
a  livery-stable  nag.  It  grimaces  like  Peer  Gynt  and  winks  like 
a  lounge  lizard,  a  cake  eater. 

223 


IP 


It  is  not  for  the  feet  of  the  dancers  on  the  crowded  cab 
aret  floor.  The  feet  follow  the  umpah  umps.  The  thoughts 
of  the  dancers  follow  the  clarinet.  The  thoughts  of  the  boobi- 
lariat  dance  easily  to  the  tangled  lyric  of  the  clarinet.  The 
thoughts  tie  themselves  into  crazy  knots.  The  music  of  the 
clarinet  becomes  like  crazily  uncoiling  whips.  The  thoughts 
of  the  dancers  shake  themselves  loose  from  words  under  the 
spur  of  the  whips.  They  begin  to  dance,  not  as  the  feet  dance. 
There  is  another  rhythm  here.  The  rhythm  of  little  ecstasies 
whimpering.  Thus  the  thoughts  of  the  dancers  dance — dead 
hopes,  wearied  ambitions,  vanishing  youth  do  an  inarticulate 
can-can  in  the  heads  of  the  dancers  on  the  cabaret  floor. 

The  cornet  wears  a  wooden  gag  in  its  mouth  and  a 
battered  black  derby  hangs  over  its  end.  Umpah  ump  from 
the  trombone,  the  bull  fiddle  and  the  bassoon.  Tangled  lyrics 
from  the  clarinet.  And  the  cornet  cakewalks  like  a  hoyden 
vampire,  the  cornet  whinnies  like  an  odalisque  expiring  in  the 
arms  of  the  Wizard  of  Oz. 

Lust  giggles  at  a  sly  jest  out  of  the  cornet.  Passion 
thumbs  its  nose  at  the  stars  out  of  the  cornet.  The  melody  of 
jazz,  the  tin  pan  ghosts  of  Chopin,  Tchaikowsky,  Old  Black 
Joe,  Liszt  and  Mumbo  Magumbo,  jungle  troubadour  of  the 
Congo,  come  whinnying  out  from  under  the  pendant  derby. 

The  dancers  on  the  cabaret  floor  close  their  eyes  and  grin 
to  themselves.  The  cornet  kids  them  along.  When  they  grow 
sad  it  burlesques  their  sorrow.  The  cornet  laughs  at  them.  It 
leers  like  a  satyr  master  of  ceremonies  at  them.  It  is  Pan  in 
a  clown  suit,  Silenus  on  a  trick  mule,  Eros  in  a  Pullman  smoker. 

Laugh,  dance,  jerk,  wiggle  and  kid  all  you  want — but  the 
Lady  of  the  Sea  Foam  whispers  a  secret.  Aphrodite,  become 
a  female  barytone,  still  takes  herself  very  seriously.  Aphro 
dite,  alas,  is  always  serious.  She  gurgles  a  sonorous  plaint  out 
of  the  saxophone.  The  cornet  sneers  at  her.  The  clarinet 

224 


sneaks  up  on  her  and  tweaks  her  nose.  The  trombone,  the 
bull  fiddle  and  the  bassoon  ignore  her  altogether.  And  the 
dancers  on  the  cabaret  floor  are  too  busy  to  dance  to  her 
simple  wails. 

Yet  there  is  no  mistake.  Aphrodite,  the  queen, 
abandoned  by  her  courtiers  and  surrounded  by  this  galaxy  of 
mountebanks,  is  still  Aphrodite.  Big-bosomed,  sleepy-eyed 
and  sad  lipped  she  walks  invisible  among  the  dancers  on  the 
cabaret  floor  and  they  listen  to  her  voice  out  of  the  saxophone. 

The  drums,  the  piano  and  the  violin  give  her  a  fluttering 
drape.  But  there  are  things  to  be  seen.  This  is  not  the 
Aphrodite  of  the  Blue  Danube  waltz — but  a  duskier,  more 
mystical  lady.  There  are  no  roses  on  her  cheeks,  no  lilies  in 
her  skin.  She  is  colored  like  a  panther  flower  and  her  limbs  are 
heavy  with  taboo  magic.  But  she  is  still  imperial.  In  vain 
the  mountebanks  and  burlesqueries  of  her  court.  Her  lips 
place  themselves  against  the  hearts  of  the  dancers  on  the  cab' 
aret  floor.  And  she  croons  her  ancient  hymns. 

The  hearts  of  the  dancers  give  themselves  to  the  saxo 
phone.  Their  feet  keep  a  rendezvous  with  the  umpah  umps. 
Their  thoughts  dance  on  the  slack  wire  of  the  clarinet.  Their 
veins  beat  time  to  the  whinny  of  the  derby  wreathed  cornet. 
The  fiddles  and  the  drums  are  partners  for  their  arms  and  their 
muscles.  But  their  hearts  embrace  shyly  the  Mother  Aphro 
dite.  Their  hearts  listen  sadly  and  proudly  and  they  almost 
forget  to  dance. 

Midnight  approaches.  Enameled  faces,  stenciled  smiles, 
painted  eyes  and  slants  of  colored  hats — these  are  the  women. 
Careless,  polite,  suave,  grinning — these  are  the  men.  The  jazz 
band  plays.  The  cabaret  floor,  jammed,  seems  to  be  moving 
around  like  a  groaning  turnstile. 

Bodies  are  hidden.  The  spotlight  from  the  balcony 
begins  to  throw  a  series  of  colors.  Melody  is  lost.  The  jazz 
band  is  hammering  like  a  mad  blacksmith.  Whang  I  Bam  I 

225 


Whang!  Bam!  Nobody  hears  the  music  of  the  band.  Bodies 
together  move  on  the  turnstile  floor.  This  is  the  part  of  the 
feast  of  Belshazzar  that  the  authorities  censored  in  a  Griffith 
movie.  .This  is  the  description  of  Tiberius*  s  court  that  the 
authorities  suppressed.  Here  are  the  poems  that  hide  on  the 
forbidden  shelves  of  the  public  library. 

The  pulp  of  figures  dissolves.  The  hammering  band  has 
finished.  Men  and  women,  grown  suddenly  polite  and  social, 
return  to  their  tables.  Citizens  of  a  neighborhood,  toilers, 
clerks,  fourflushers,  wives,  husbands,  gropers,  nobodies,  less- 
than-nobodies — watch  and  see  where  they  go.  Into  the  brick 
holes,  into  the  apartment  buildings.  They  pack  themselves 
away  like  ants  in  an  anthill. 

The  nobodies — the  gropers,  husbands,  wage-earners, 
fourflushers — but  they  made  a  violent  picture  a  moment  ago. 
Under  the  revolving  colors  of  the  floodlight  and  the  hammer 
ing,  whinnying  music  of  the  jazz  band  they  became  again  the 
mask  of  Dionysus — the  ancient  satanical  mask  which  nature 
slips  over  her  head  when  in  quest  of  diversion. 


NIGHT    DIARY 

Where  is  the  moon?  Gone.  This  inferior  luminary 
cannot  compete  with  the  corset  ad  signs  and  the  ice  cream  ad 
signs  that  blaze  in  the  night  sky.  We  stand  on  a  bridge  that 
connects  State  Street  and  look  at  the  river. 

There  are  night  shapes.  But  first  we  see  the  dark  water 
of  the  river  and  silver,  gold  and  ruby  reflections  of  the  bridge 
lights.  These  hang  like  carnival  ribbons  in  the  water.  The 
"L"  trains  crawl  over  the  Wells  Street  bridge  and  the  water 
below  them  becomes  alive  with  a  moving  silver  image.  For 
a  moment  the  reflection  of  the  "L**  trains  in  the  river  seems 
like  a  ghostly  waterfall.  Then  it  changes  and  becomes  some 
thing  else.  What?  The  light  reflections  in  the  dark  water 
are  baffling.  It  is  a  game  to  stand  on  the  bridge  and  make  up 
similes  about  them.  They  look  like  this,  like  that,  like  some 
thing  else.  Like  golden  pillars,  like  Chinese  writing,  like  mo 
notonous  exclamation  points. 

There  are  boat  shapes.  The  river  docks  bulge  with 
shadows.  The  boat  shapes  emerge  slowly  from  the  shadows. 
These  shapes,  unlike  the  river  reflections,  do  not  suggest  simi 
les.  They  bulge  in  the  darkness  and  their  vanished  outlines 
remind  one  of  something.  What?  Of  boats,  of  ships,  of  men. 

Men  and  ships.  Little  lanterns  hang  like  elfin  watch 
men  from  the  sterns  of  ships.  The  bulldog  noses  of  tugboats 
sleep  against  the  docks.  High  overhead  the  corset  ad  and  the 
ice  cream  ad  blaze,  wink  and  go  out  and  turn  on  so  as  to  attract 
the  preoccupied  eyes  of  people  far  away.  Then  the  bridges 
count  themselves  to  the  west.  First  bridge,  second  bridge, 
third  bridge.  Street  cars,  auto  lights  and  vague  noises  jerk 
eerily  over  the  bridges. 

The  sleeping  tugboats,  launches  and  lake  craft  remind 
one  of  nothing  at  all  except  that  there  are  engines.  But  as  one 
stares  at  them  they  become  secret.  There  is  something  myste 
rious  about  abandoned  engines.  It  is  almost  as  if  one  saw  the 

227 


bodies  of  men  lying  in  shadows.  Engines  and  men  are  insep 
arable.  And  these  boats  that  sleep  in  the  river  shadows  are 
parts  of  men.  Amputations. 

The  night  shapes  increase.  There  are  buildings.  They 
drift  along  the  river  docks.  Dark  windows  and  faded  brick 
lines.  Their  rooftops  are  like  the  steps  of  a  giant  stairway 
that  has  broken  down.  Where  is  the  moon?  Here  are  win 
dows  to  mirror  its  distant  silver.  Instead,  the  windows  sleep. 
Theynervous  electric  signs  that  wink  and  do  tricks  throw  an 
intermittent  glare  over  the  windows. 

Do  you  know  the  dark  windows  of  the  city,  you  gentlemen 
who  write  continually  of  temples  and  art?  Come,  forget 
your  love  for  things  you  never  saw,  cathedrals  and  parthenons 
that  exist  in  the  yesterdays  you  never  knew.  Come,  look  at 
the  fire  escapes  that  are  stamped  like  letter  Z's  against  the  mys 
terious  rectangles;  at  the  rhythmic  flight  of  windows  whose 
black  and  silver  wings  are  tipped  with  the  yellow  winkings  of 
the  corset  and  ice  cream  signs.  The  windows  over  the  dark 
river  are  like  an  alphabet,  like  the  keyboard  of  a  typewriter. 
They  are  like  anything  you  want  them  to  be.  You  have  only  to 
wish  and  the  dark  windows  take  new  patterns. 

Wall  shapes  arise.  Warehouses  that  have  no  windows. 
Huge  lines  loom  in  the  shadows.  A  vast  panel  of  brick  without 
windows  rises,  vanishes.  Buildings  that  stand  like  playing 
blocks.  The  half-hidden  shapes,  the  tracks  of  windows,  the 
patterns  of  rooftops  suggest  things — fortresses,  palaces,  dun 
geons,  wars,  witches  and  cathedrals. 

But  after  watching  them  they  lose  these  false  significances. 
They  suggest  nothing.  They  are  the  amputations  of  men. 
Things,  playthings  men  have  left  behind  for  the  corset  and 
the  ice  cream  ads  to  wink  at.  And  this  is  the  real  secret  of  their 
beauty.  The  night  devours  their  meaning  and  leaves  behind 
lines;  angles,  geometries,  rhythms  and  lights.  And  these 
things  that  have  no  meaning,  that  suggest  nothing,  that  are 
not  the  symbols  of  ideas  or  events — these  become  beautifuL 

228 


There  are  several  people  standing  on  this  bridge — loiter 
ers.  Their  elbows  rest  on  the  railing,  their  faces  are  hidden 
in  their  hands.  They  stare  into  the  scene.  A  hoarse  whistle 
toots  at  Wells  Street.  Bells  clang  far  away.  There  is  a  scurry 
of  dim  noises  in  the  dark.  Something  huge  moves  through 
the  air.  It  is  a  bridge  opening.  Its  arms  make  a  massive 
gesture  upward.  A  boat  is  coming  through,  a  heavy  shape 
drifting  among  the  carnival  ribbons  that  hang  down  in  the 
black  water. 

Noises  that  have  different  tones.  Boat  whistles,  bridge 
bells,  electric  alarm  tinglings  and  the  swish  of  water  like  the 
sound  of  wood  tapping  wood.  Lights  that  have  different 
colors.  The  yellow  of  electric  signs.  Around  one  of  them 
that  hoists  its  message  in  the  air  runs  a  green  border.  The 
electric  lights  quiver  and  run  round  the  glaring  frame  like 
a  mysterious  green  water.  Red,  gold  and  silver  pillars  in  the 
water.  Gray,  blue  and  black  shadows;  elfin  lanterns,  "L" 
trains  like  illuminated  caterpillars  creeping  over  Wells  Street, 
waterfalls  of  silver,  Chinese  writing  in  ruby;  black,  lead  and 
silver  windows  and  a  thousand  shades  of  darkness  from 
bronze  to  strange  greens.  All  these  are  things  that  the  loiter 
ing  ones  leaning  on  the  bridge  rail  know. 

How  nicely  the  hoods  of  automobiles  hide  the  twisted 
lines  of  the  gas  engines  under  them.  Smooth  as  chariots, 
curved  and  graceful  as  greyhounds,  pigeons,  rabbits — the 

State  Street  begins  after  one  passes  odors.  This  is  South 
Water  Street.  A  swept,  dusted  and  wonderfully  silent  street. 
White  wings  have  scrubbed  its  worn  body.  But  the  odors 
deepen  with  the  night.  Farm  odors,  food  odors — an  aroma 
of  decay  surrounds  them.  By  their  smells  one  can  almost  de 
tect  the  presence  of  chickens,  eggs,  oranges,  cabbages,  pota 
toes,  plums  and  cantaloupes. 

229 


A  group  of  movie  theaters  holds  carnival  at  the  entrance 
to  the  loop.  People  hurry  under  electric  canopies,  dig  in  their 
pockets  for  dollar  bills  and  buy  tickets.  The  buildings  sleep 
along  the  river.  The  boats  wait  in  the  shadows.  Movie 
signs,  crossing  cops,  window  tracks  and  different  colored  suits 
of  clothes;  odors,  noises,  lights  and  a  mysteriously  tender  pat 
tern  of  walls — these  lie  in  the  night  like  a  reward. 

We  walk  away  with  memories.  When  we  are  traveling 
some  day,  riding  over  strange  places,  these  will  be  things  we 
shall  remember.  Not  words,  but  lines  that  mean  nothing;  and 
the  scene  from  the  bridge  will  bring  a  sad  confusion  into  our 
heads.  And  we  shall  sit  staring  at  famous  'monuments,  battle 
fields,  antiquities,  and  whisper  to  ourselves: 

.  wish  I  was  back.  ,    wish  I  was  back. 


THE  LAKE 

The  lake  asks  an  old  question  as  you  ride  to  work  or  come 
home  from  work  on  the  I.  C.  train.  The  train  shoots  along 
and  out  of  the  window  the  lake  turns  slowly  like  a  great  wheel. 
There  is  a  curious  optical  illusion,  as  if  the  train  were  riding 
frantically  on  the  rim  of  a  great  wheel  and  the  wheel  were 
turning  in  an  opposite  direction. 

Perhaps  this  illusion  makes  it  seem  as  if  the  lake  were 
asking  an  old  question  as  you  ride  along  its  edge — "Where 
you  going?" 

People  looking  out  of  the  train  window  seem  to  grow 
sad  as  they  stare  at  the  lake.  But  this  does  not  apply  to 
train  riders  alone.  In  the  summer  time  there  are  the  revelers 
on  the  Municipal  Pier  and  the  beach  loungers  and  all  others 
who  sit  or  take  walks  within  sight  of  the  water. 

During  the  summer  day  the  beaches  are  lively  and  the 
vari-colored  bathing  suits  and  parasols  offer  little  carnival 
panels  at  the  ends  of  the  east  running  streets.  As  you  pass 
them  on  the  north  side  bus  or  on  the  south  side  I.  C.,  the  sun, 
the  swarm  of  bathers  smeared  like  bits  of  brightly  colored 
paint  across  the  yellow  sand  and  the  obliterating  sweep  of 
water  remind  you  of  the  modernist  artists  whose  pictures  are 
usually  lithographic  blurs. 

Yet  winter  and  summer,  even  when  the  thousands  upon 
thousands  of  bathers  cover  the  sand  like  a  shower  of  confetti 
and  when  there  are  shouts  and  circus  excitements  along  the 
beach,  people  who  look  at  the  lake  seem  always  to  become 
sad.  One  wonders  why. 

Perhaps  it  is  because  the  inanimate  sweep  of  the  water, 
its  hugeness  and  silence,  make  one  forget  the  petty  things 
and  the  greedy  trifles  which  form  the  routine  of  one's  day. 
And  when  one  forgets  these  things  one  remembers,  alas, 
something  they  pleasantly  obscured  by  their  presence.  A 

231 


dream,  perhaps,  buried  long  ago.  A  hope,  an  emotion  success 
fully  interred  under  the  amiable  rubbish  the  days  have  piled 
up. 

Then,  too,  there  is  the  question,  *  "Where  you  going?" 
And  an  answer  to  it  that  seems  to  come  out  of  the  long  reaches 
of  water— **Come  with  me — somewhere — nowhere." 

These  thoughts  play  in  people's  minds  without  words. 
They  are  almost  more  a  part  of  the  lake  than  of  their  thinking, 
as  if  they  were,  in  fact,  lake  thoughts. 

Another  reason  why  people  grow  sad  when  they  look 
at  the  water  of  the  lake  is  perhaps  that  the  lake  offers  them 
an  escape  from  the  tawdry,  nagging  little  responsibilities  of 
the  day  that  go  with  being  a  citizen  and  a  breadwinner.  Not 
that  it  invites  to  suicide.  Quite  the  reverse;  it  invites  to  living. 
To  doing  something  that  has  a  sweep  to  it;  that  has  a  swagger 
to  it.  To  setting  sail  for  strange  ports  where  strange  adven 
tures  wait. 

So,  as  the  I.  C.  trains  rush  their  thousands  to  work  and 
home  again  the  citizens  and  breadwinners  let  their  imagi 
nations  gallop  toward  a  faraway  horizon.  And  these  imagi 
nations  come  galloping  back  again  and  the  breadwinners  are 
saddened — by  a  memory.  Yes,  they  were  for  a  moment 
rovers,  egad!  swashbucklers,  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  fortune 
free  of  the  rigamarole  burdens  that  keep  them  on  the  I.  C. 
treadmill.  And  now  they  are  again  passengers.  Going  to 
work.  Going  home  to  go  to  work  again  tomorrow. 

It  is  easy  to  think  that  this  is  the  secret  of  the  sad  little 
grimace  the  lake  brings  to  the  eyes  of  the  train  riders. 

This  discourse  is  becoming  a  bit  dolorous.  But  the  sub 
ject  rather  requires  an  andante  treatment.  The  city's  press 
agents  will  tell  you  quite  another  story  about  the  lake — about 
the  "city's  playground"  and  how  conducive  it  is  to  healthful 
sport  and  joyous  recreation.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
is  this  other  side,  so  to  speak,  of  the  lake.  For  the  lake 

232 


belongs  to  those  familiar  things  that  surprise  people  into 
uncomfortable  silences. 

One  could  as  easily  write  about  the  sky  in  this  vein,  since 
the  lake,  like  the  sky,  challenges  the  monotony  of  people's 
lives  with  another  monotony — the  monotony  of  nature  that 
seems  to  engulf,  obliterate,  reduce  to  puny  proportions  the 
routine  by  which  people  live  and  which,  fortunately,  they 
delude  themselves  into  admiring. 

There  is  also  the  question  of  beauty.  This  is  a  delicate 
issue  to  introduce  into  one's  daily  reading  and  the  reader's 
pardon  is  solicited  with  proper  humiliation.  And  yet,  there 
is  a  question  of  beauty,  of  soul  states  and  aesthetic  nuances 
involved  in  the  consideration  of  the  lake. 

Beauty  by  one  definition  is  the  sensatory  excitement 
stirred  in  people  by  the  rhythm  of  line,  the  vibration  of  color, 
the  play  of  motion  and  the  surprise  of  idea.  It  is  usually  a 
saddening  effect  that  beauty  produces  and  perhaps  this  is 
because  beauty  is  something  like  an  illumination  that  while 
admirable  in  itself  throws  into  pathetic  evidence  all  the  ugly 
and  unbeautiful  things  of  one's  life. 

In  this  somewhat  involved  assthetic  principle  there  is 
probably  another  hint  at  the  causes  of  the  sadness  people  show 
when  they  look  at  the  lake. 

Today  the  lake  wears  its  autumn  aspect.  Out  of  the 
train  window  one  sees  a  wedge  of  geese  flying  south  or  occa 
sionally  a  lone  bird  circling  like  an  endless  note  over  the  water. 
The  waves  look  cold  and  their  symmetrical  crisscross  makes 
one  think  of  the  chill,  lonely  nights  that  beckon  outside  the 
coziness  of  one's  home  windows. 

On  summer  days  the  lake  is  sometimes  like  a  huge  laven 
der  leaf  veined  with  gold.  Sometimes  it  becomes  festive  and 
wears  the  awning  stripes  of  cloud  and  sun.  Or  it  grows  serene 
and  reminds  one  of  a  superb  domesticity — as  it  lies  pointed 
like  a  grate,  arched  like  a  saucer  or  the  back  of  a  sleeping 
kitten. 

233 


But  today  its  autumn  is  a  bit  depressing.  It  no  longer 
lures  toward  strange  adventure.  Instead  its  grayness  seems  to 
say  to  one,  "Stay  away — stay  away.  Hide  away  in  warm 
houses  and  warm  overcoats.  Men  are  little  things — puny 
things." 

It  is  when  one  leaves  the  city  and  goes  to  visit  or  to  live 
in  another  place  where  there  is  no  lake  that  the  lake  grows 
alive  in  one's  mind.  One  becomes  thirsty  for  it  and  dreams 
of  it.  One  remembers  it  then  as  something  that  was  almost 
an  essential  part  of  life,  like  a  third  dimension.  In  some  way 
one  associates  one's  day  dreams  with  the  lake  and  falls  into 
thinking  that  there  is  something  unfinished,  sterile  about  living 
with  no  lake  at  one's  elbow. 

In  a  short  while,  a  month  or  so,  the  lake  will  become  a 
stage  for  melodrama.  The  people  riding  on  its  edge  will 
stare  into  mists.  They  will  watch  the  huge  mist  shapes  rolling 
back  and  forth  over  the  hidden  water.  The  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  cold  sun,  the  fog  and  the  freezing  water  will  become  actors 
in  a  great  play  and  the  train  windows  will  be  little  prosceniums 
inclosing  the  melodrama  of  winter. 


SERGT.  KUZICK'S  WATERLOO 

"Offhand,"  said  Sergt.  Kuzick  of  the  first  precinct,  "off 
hand,  I  can't  think  of  any  stories  for  you.  If  you  give  me  a 
little  time,  maybe  I  could  think  of  one  or  two.  What  you  want, 
I  suppose,  is  some  story  as  I  know  about  from  personal 
experience.  Like  the  time,  for  instance,  that  the  half-breed 
Indian  busted  out  of  the  bridewell,  where  he  was  serving  a 
six  months'  sentence,  and  snuck  home  and  killed  his  wife  and 
went  back  again  to  the  bridewell,  and  they  didn't  find  out 
who  killed  her  until  he  got  drunk  a  year  later  and  told  a  bar 
tender  about  it.  That's  the  kind  you  want,  ain't  it?" 

I  said  it  was. 

"Well,"  said  Sergt.  Kuzick,  "I  can  t  think  of  any  off 
hand,  like  I  said.  There  was  a  building  over  on  West  Monroe 
Street  once  where  we  found  three  bodies  in  the  basement. 
They  was  all  dead,  but  that  wouldn't  make  a  story  hardly, 
because  nobody  ever  found  out  who  killed  them.  Let  me 
think  awhile." 

Sergt.  Kuzick  thought. 

"Do  you  remember  the  Leggett  mystery?"  he  inquired 
doubtfully.  "I  guess  that  was  before  your  time.  I  was  only  a 
patrolman  then.  Old  Leggett  had  a  tobacco  jar  made  out  of 
a  human  skull,  and  that's  how  they  found  out  he  killed  his  wife. 
It  was  her  skull.  It  come  out  one  evening  when  he  brought  his 
bride  home.  You  know,  he  got  married  again  after  killin'  the 
first  one.  And  they  was  having  a  party  and  the  new  bride 
said  she  didn't  want  that  skull  around  in  her  house.  Old 
Leggett  got  mad  and  said  he  wouldn't  part  with  that  skull  for 
love  or  money.  So  when  he  was  to  work  one  day  she  threw 
the  skull  into  the  ash  can,  and  when  old  Leggett  come  home 
and  saw  the  skull  missing  he  swore  like  the  devil  and  come 
down  to  the  station  to  swear  out  a  warrant  for  his  wife's 
arrest,  chargin*  her  with  disorderly  conduct.  He  carried  on 

235 


l/.Vm 


so  that  one  of  the  boys  got  suspicious  and  went  out  to  the 
house  with  him  and  they  found  the  skull  in  the  ash  can,  and  old 
Leggett  began  to  weep  over  it.  So  one  of  the  boys  asked  him, 
naturally,  whose  skull  it  was.  He  said  it  wasn't  a  skull  no 
more,  but  a  tobacco  jar.  And  they  asked  him  where  he'd 
got  it.  And  he  begun  to  lie  so  hard  that  they  tripped  him  up 
and  finally  he  said  it  was  his  first  wife's  skull,  and  he  was 
hung  shortly  afterward.  You  see,  if  you  give  me  time  I  could 
remember  something  like  that  for  a  story. 

"Offhand,  though,"  sighed  Sergt.  Kuzick,  "it's  difficult 
I  ain't  got  it  clear  in  my  head  what  you  want  either.  Of  course 
I  know  it's  got  to  be  interestin'  or  the  paper  won't  print  it. 
But  interestin'  things  is  pretty  hard  to  run  into.  I  remember 
one  night  out  to  the  old  morgue.  This  was  'way  back  when 
I  started  on  the  force  thirty  years  ago  and  more.  And  they 
was  having  trouble  at  the  morgue  owing  to  the  stiffs  vanishing 
and  being  mutilated.  They  thought  maybe  it  was  students 
carryin*  them  off  to  practice  medicine  on.  But  it  wasn't,  be 
cause  they  found  old  Pete — that  was  the  colored  janitor  they 
had  out  there — he  wasn't  an  African,  but  it  turned  out  a  Fiji 
Islander  afterward.  They  found  him  dead  in  the  morgue  one 
day  and  it  turned  out  he  was  a  cannibal.  Or,  anyway,  his 
folks  had  been  cannibals  in  Fiji,  and  the  old  habit  had  come 
up  in  him  so  he  couldn't  help  himself,  and  he  was  makin"  a 
diet  off  the  bodies  in  the  morgue.  But  he  struck  one  that  was 
embalmed,  and  the  poison  in  the  body  killed  him.  The  papers 
didn't  carry  much  on  it  on  account  of  it  not  bein'  very  impor 
tant,  but  I  always  thought  it  was  kind  of  interestin'  at  that. 
That's  about  what  you  want,  I  suppose — some  story  or  other 
like  that.  Well,  let's  see. 

"It's  hard,"  sighed  Sergt.  Kuzick,  after  a  pause,  "to  put 
your  finger  on  a  yarn  offhand.  I  remember  a  lot  of  things 
now,  come  to  think  of  it,  like  the  case  I  was  on  where  a  fella 

236 


named  Zianow  killed  his  wife  by  pouring  little  pieces  of  hot 
lead  into  her  ear,  and  he  would  have  escaped,  but  he  sold  the 
body  to  the  old  county  hospital  for  practicin*  purposes,  and 
while  they  was  monkeying  with  the  skull  they  heard  something 
rattle  and  when  they  investigated  it  was  several  pieces  of  lead 
inside  rattling  around.  So  they  arrested  Zianow  and  got  him 
to  confess  the  whole  thing,  and  he  was  sent  up  for  life,  because 
it  turned  out  his  wife  had  stabbed  him  four  times  the  week  be 
fore  he  poured  the  lead  into  her  while  she  slept,  and  frightened 
him  so  that  he  did  it  in  self-defense,  in  a  way. 

*'I  understand  in  a  general  way  what  you  want,"  murmured 
Sergt.  Kuzick,  "but  so  help  me  if  I  can  think  of  a  thing  that 
you  might  call  interestin*.  Most  of  the  things  we  have  to  deal 
with  is  chiefly  murders  and  suicides  and  highway  robberies, 
like  the  time  old  Alderman  McGuire,  who  is  dead  now,  was 
held  up  by  two  bandits  while  going  home  from  a  night  session 
of  the  council,  and  he  hypnotized  one  bandit.  Yes,  sir,  you  may 
wonder  at  that,  but  you  didn't  know  McGuire.  He  was  a 
wonderful  hypnotist,  and  he  hypnotized  the  bandit,  and  just 
as  the  other  one,  who  wasn't  hypnotized,  was  searching  his 
pockets  McGuire  said  to  the  hypnotized  bandit,  'You're  a 
policeman,  shoot  this  highwayman.'  And  the  hypnotized  one 
was  the  bandit  who  had  the  gun,  and  he  turned  around,  as 
Alderman  McGuire  said,  and  shot  the  other,  unhypnotized 
bandit  and  killed  him.  But  when  he  reported  the  entire  inci 
dent  to  the  station — I  was  on  duty  that  night — the  captain 
wouldn't  believe  it,  and  tried  to  argue  McGuire  into  saying  it 
was  a  accident,  and  that  the  gun  had  gone  off  accidentally  and 
killed  the  unhypnotized  bandit.  But  the  alderman  stuck  to  his 
story,  and  it  was  true,  because  the  hypnotized  bandit  told  me 
privately  all  about  it  when  I  took  him  down  to  Joliet.  • 

"I  will  try,"  said  Sergt.  Kuzick,  "to  think  of  something 
for  you  in  about  a  week.  I  begin  to  get  a  pretty  definite  idea 
what  you  want,  and  I'll  talk  it  over  with  old  Jim,  who  used 

237 


to  travel  beat  with  me.  He's  a  great  one  for  stories,  old  Jim 
is.  A  man  tan  hardly  think  of  them  offhand  like.  You  give 
me  a  week."  And  the  old  sergeant  sank  into  his  wooden  chair 
and  gazed  out  of  the  dusty  station  window  with  a  perplexed 
and  baffled  eye. 


DEAD  WARRIOR 

Do  you  want  to  see  the  dead  warriors  come  back,  the 
fallen  army  come  back,  crawling  out  of  its  million  coffins  and 
walking  back  across  the  sea  and  across  the  prairie;  the  waxen 
face  of  youth  come  out  of  its  million  graves  and  its  uniform 
hanging  from  its  limp  frame?  Do  you  want  to  see  the  war 
dead,  the  young  ones  ripped  to  pieces  in  the  trenches  standing 
like  tired  beggars  at  your  back  door,  dead  hands  and  dead  eyes 
and  wailing  softly:  "I  was  so  young.  I  died  so  soon.  All 
of  us  from  all  the  countries  who  died  so  soon,  we  grow  lonely 
on  the  other  side.  Ah,  my  unlived  days!  My  uneaten  bread! 
My  uncounted  years!  They  lie  in  a  little  corner  and  nobody 
comes  to  them!'* 

It's  a  Jewish  play  called  "The  Dead  Man"  and  every  night 
in  Glickman's  Palace  Theater  on  Blue  Island  Avenue  a  thou 
sand  men  and  women  sit  with  staring  eyes  and  watch  this  figure 
in  its  grave-clothes  come  dragging  back  like  a  tired  beggar, 
come  moaning  back  with  the  cry:  "My  unlived  days!  My 
uneaten  bread!  My  uncounted  years!" 

He  stands  between  Hamlet  and  Peer  Gynt,  this  strangely 
motionless  one  Who  has  thrown  the  west  side  into  an  uproar. 
There  is  no  drama  around  him.  He  is  a  dead  young  man  in 
uniform  walking  slowly,  limply  through  three  acts.  This  is  all 
one  remembers — that  his  eyes  were  open  and  unseeing,  that 
his  arms  hung  like  a  scarecrow's  and  that  the  fingers  of  his 
hands  were  curled  in  and  motionless. 

They  talk  to  him  in  the  play.  The  scene  is  a  Jewish 
village  in  Poland.  The  war  has  ended.  Famine,  disease  and 
poverty  remain.  Refugees,  dying  ones,  starving  ones,  huddle 
together  in  the  dismantled  synagogue.  No  one  knows  what 
has  happened.  The  armies  have  passed.  Flame  and  blood 
brightened  the  sky  for  a  time.  Now  the  little  village  lies  cut 
off  from  the  world  and  its  people  clutch  desperately  to  the  hem 


of  life.  No  news  has  come.  Wanderers  stagger  down  the  torn 
roads  with  crazy  tidings  and  the  old  men  of  the  synagogue  sit 
shivering  over  their  prayer  books.  A  world  has  been  blown 
into  fragments  and  this  scene  is  one  of  the  fragments. 

Sholom  Ash,  who  wrote  this  play,  spent  a  time  in  villages 
abroad  as  a  Jewish  relief  worker  and  he  brought  back  this 
scene.  A  bedlam  of  despair,  a  merciless  photograph  that  stares 
across  the  footlights  for  a  half-hour.  The  story  begins.  There 
is  a  village  leader  in  whose  veins  the  will  to  live  still  throbs. 
He  exhorts  the  shivering  ones.  There  will  be  a  wedding.  He 
will  give  his  daughter  in  marriage.  There  will  be  feasting. 
The  dead  are  dead.  The  duty  of  the  living  ones  is  to  live.  Let 
the  old  women  prepare  food  and  the  men  will  sing.  Life  will 
begin  over  and  a  new  village  will  be  built  up. 

But  the  daughter  hangs  back.  She  talks  of  the  young 
man  whom  she  married  and  who  went  away  to  war. 

"He  is  dead,  poor  child,"  the  father  says. 

"No,  no,  he  isn't  dead.  I  dreamed  he  was  still  alive,'*  she 
answers. 

But  the  festival  starts.  The  starving  ones  sing  in  the 
broken  synagogue.  There  will  be  a  wedding.  Life  will  begin. 
But  there  is  something  in  the  ruined  doorway.  A  uniform 
stands  in  the  doorway.  A  dark,  waxen-faced  young  man  who 
seems  asleep,  whose  arms  hang  limp,  whose  fingers  curl  in. 
He  comes  forward  and  stands,  a  terribly  idle  figure.  He  is  the 
young  man. 

They  greet  him.  His  bride  weeps  with  joy.  His  aged 
mother  presses  his  hands  and  weeps  and  murmurs  in  a  whisper: 
"Oh,  how  changed  he  is!"  The  synagogue  shouts  and  cries  its 
welcome.  But  the  young  man's  eyes  stare  and  it  would  seem 
almost  that  he  is  dead.  Then  he  talks.  His  voice  has  a  life 
less  sound,  his  words  are  like  a  child  reciting  sleepily.  There 
is  a  gruesome  oddity  about  him.  But  an  old  man  explains. 
"They  come  back  like  that,"  he  says.  "There  is  one  who  came 

240 


back  who  shrieks  all  night.     And  another  who  cannot  remem 
ber  anything." 

Yet  how  strangely  he  talks!  Of  a  country  from  which  he 
has  come — on  the  other  side,  it  lies.  Hysterical  questions 
arise.  Is  there  food  there,  are  there  houses  there,  is  there 
milk  for  children  and  synagogues  in  which  to  pray?  There  is 
everything  one  desires,  he  says.  So  the  questions  rise  and  the 
answers  come — curious  child  answers.  But  why  is  he  so  pale 
and  worn  if  the  country  whence  he  comes  is  so  remarkable? 
Ah,  because  he  was  lonely.  All  who  are  in  this  country  are 
like  him — lonely  for  the  homes  they  left  so  soon.  For  their 
people.  All  who  are  in  the  country  whence  he  came  sit  and 
remember  only  the  things  of  the  past.  Yes,  that  is  all  one 
does  in  this  marvelous  country — remember  the  things  of  the 
past,  over  and  over  again. 

They  will  go  with  him.  The  miser  who  has  hidden  away 
his  gold,  the  widow  and  her  two  orphans,  the  hungry  ones  and 
despairing  ones — they  will  all  go  back  with  him. 

One  comes  out  of  the  theater  with  a  strange  sense  of 
understanding.  The  dead  have  spoken  to  one.  It  is  never  to 
be  forgotten.  The  youth  that  was  ripped  to  pieces  in  the 
trenches  reached  out  his  limp  arms  across  a  row  of  west  side 
footlights  and  left  a  cry  echoing  in  one's  heart:  "My  unlived 
days!  My  uneaten  bread!  My  uncounted  years!  They  lie 
in  a  little  corner  waiting  and  no  one  comes  to  them.'* 

Propaganda?  Yes,  a  curious  undertone  of  propaganda. 
The  war  propaganda  of  the  dead,  older  than  the  fall  of  Liege 
by  a  hundred  centuries.  The  primitive  propaganda  of  the 
world  mourning  for  its  lost  ones. 

You  will  see  <the  play,  perhaps.  Or  you  will  wait  until 
it  is  translated  some  day.  But  this  month  the  west  side  is 
aglow  with  the  genius  of  Sholom  Ash  and  with  the  interpreta 
tive  genius  of  Aaron  Teitelbaum,  who  plays  the  dead  man  in 
uniform  and  who  directed  the  production.  I  know  of  no  per 
formance  today  that  rivals  his. 

241 


THE  TATTOOER 

Here  the  city  kind  of  runs  over  at  the  heel  and  flaunts  a 
seven-year-old  straw  hat.  Babylon  mooches  wearily  along 
with  a  red  nose  dreaming  in  the  sun,  and  Gomorrah  leans 
against  an  ash  can.  It  is  South  State  Street  below  Van  Buren. 
The  ancient  palaces  of  mirth  and  wonder  blink  with  dusty 
lithographs. 

"Long  ago/'  says  Dutch,  "yen,  long  ago  it  was  different. 
Then  people  was  people.  Then  life  was  something.  Then  the 
tattooing  business  was  a  business.  When  the  old  London 
Musee  was  next  door  and  everybody  knew  how  to  have  a 
good  time." 

The  automatic  piano  in  the  penny  arcade  whangs  dolor 
ously  into  a  forgotten  tango.  The  two  errand  boys  stand  with 
their  eyes  glued  on  the  interiors  of  the  picture  slot  machines — 
"An  Artist's  Model"  and  "On  the  Beach  at  Atlantic  City." 
A  gun  pops  foolishly  in  the  rear  and  the  3-inch  bullseye  clangs. 
In  a  corner  behind  the  Postal  Card  Photo  Taken  in  a  Minute 
gallery  sits  Dutch,  the  world's  leading  tattooer.  Sample  tattoo 
designs  cover  the  two  walls.  Dragons,  scorpions,  bulbous 
nymphs,  crossed  flags,  wreathed  anchors,  cupids,  butterflies, 
daggers  and  quaint  decorations  that  seem  the  grotesque  sur 
vivals  of  the  mid-Victorian  schools  of  fantasy.  Photographs 
of  famous  men  also  cover  the  walls — Capt.  Constantinus  tat 
tooed  from  head  to  foot,  every  inch  of  him;  Barnum's  favorites, 
ancient  and  forgotten  kooch  dancers,  fire  eaters,  sword  swal- 
lowers,  magicians  and  museum  freaks.  And  a  two  column 
article  from  the  Chicago  Chronicle  of  1897,  yellowed  and 
framed  and  recounting  in  sonorous  phrases  ( "pulchritudinous 
epidermis"  is  featured  frequently)  that  the  society  folk  of 
Chicago  have  taken  up  tattooing  as  a  fad,  following  the  lead 
of  New  York's  Four  Hundred,  who  followed  the  lead  of  Lon 
don's  most  aristocratic  circles;  and  that  Prof.  Al  Herman, 
known  from  Madagascar  to  Sandy  Hook  as  "Dutch,"  was  the 
leading  artist  of  the  tattoo  needle  in  the  world. 

242 


Here  in  his  corner,  surrounded  by  the  molding  symbols 
and  slogans  of  a  dead  world,  Dutch  is  rounding  out  his  career 
— a  Silenus  in  exile,  his  eyes  still  bright  with  the  memory  of 
hurdy-gurdy  midnights. 

"Long  ago,"  says  Dutch,  and  his  sigh  evokes  a  procession 
of  marvelous  ghosts  tattooed  from  head  to  toe  and  capering 
like  a  company  of  debonair  totem  poles  over  the  cobblestones 
of  another  South  State  Street.  But  the  macabre  days  are  gone. 
The  Barnum  bacchanal  of  the  nineties  lies  in  its  grave  with  a 
fading  lithograph  for  a  tombstone.  Along  with  the  fall  of  the 
Russian  empire,  the  collapse  of  the  fourteen  points  and  the 
general  dethronement  of  reason  since  the  World's  Fair,  the 
honorable  art  of  tattooing  has  come  in  for  its  share  of  vicissi 
tudes. 

4 'Oh,  we  still  do  business,"  says  Dutch.  "Human  nature 
is  slow  to  decline  and  there  are  people  who  still  realize  that 
if  you  got  a  handsome  watch  what  do  you  want  to  do  to  it? 
Engrave  it,  ain't  it?  And  if  you  got  a  handsome  skin,  what 
then?  Tattoo,  naturally.  And  we  tattoo  in  seven  colors  now 
where  it  used  to  be  three,  and  use  electricity.  Do  you  think 
it's  crazy?  Well,  you  should  see  who  I  used  to  tattoo  in  the 
old  days.  Read  the  article  on  the  wall.  As  for  being  crazy, 
what  do  you  say  about  the  man  who  spends  his  last  50  cents 
to  get  into  a  baseball  game,  and  gets  excited  and  throws  his 
only  hat  in  the  air  and  loses  it,  and  the  man  who  sits  all  day 
and  all  night  with  a  fishpole  on  the  pier  and  don't  catch  any 
fish?  Yes,  like  I  tell  the  judge  who  picked  us  up  one  day 
in  Iowa,  you  know  how  they  do  sometimes  when  you  follow  the 
carnival.  And  he  asks  me  why  I  shouldn't  go  to  jail,  and  if 
tattooing  ain't  crazy,  and  I  says  give  me  three  minutes  and  I 
prove  my  case.  And  I  begin  with  the  Romans,  and  how  they 
was  the  brightest  people  we  knew,  and  how  they  went  in  for 
tattooing,  and  how  Columbus  was  tattooed,  and  all  the  sailors 
that  was  bright  enough  to  discover  America  was  tattooed, 
also.  Then  I  say,  what  if  Charlie  Ross  was  tattooed? 

243 


Would  he  be  lost  to-day?  And  what  if  he  had  under  his 
name  the  word  Philadelphia?  And  in  addition  to  that  the 
date  where  he  was  born  and  his  address  and  so  on.  Would 
he  be  lost  then?  'You  see/  I  says,  *a  man  can't  be  tattooed 
enough  for  his  own  good/  and  the  judge  says  I  win  my  case/' 

The  automatic  piano  plays  "Over  There"  and  the  shoot 
ing  gallery  rifles  pop  too  insistently  for  a  moment.  Dutch  con 
templates  a  plug  of  fresh  tobacco.  Then  he  resumes.  This 
time  a  more  intimate  tale — the  story  of  his  romance — a  weird, 
grotesque  amour  with  a  gaudy  can-can  obbligato. 

"Long  ago,"  Dutch  whispers;  "yeh,  I  knew  all  the  girls. 
I  tattoned  them  all.  And  I  live  in  this  street  for  thirty 
years  now.  But  nobody  is  interested  any  more  in  what  used 
to  be.  How  this  street  has  become  different !  Ach,  it  is  gone, 
all  gone.  Everything.  Tattooing  hangs  on  a  little.  Human 
nature  demand  it.  But  human  nature  is  dying  likewise.  Yeh, 
I  ask  you  what  would  old  Barnum  say  if  he  should  come  back 
and  see  me  sitting  here?  Me,  who  was  as  good  any  day  as 
Capt.  Constantinus?  I  hate  to  think  what.  In  those  days 
talent  counted.  If  you  could  sing  or  dance  or  tattoo  it  meant 
something.  Now  what  does  it  mean?  Look  at  the  dancers 
and  singers  they  have,  and  who  is  there  that  tattooes  any 
more?  It's  all  gone  to  smash,  the  whole  world." 

Now  amid  the  popping  of  the  rifles  and  the  tinny  whang 
ing  of  the  piano  Dutch  draws  forth  a  final  package.  He 
unwraps  a  yellowed  newspaper.  Photographs.  One  by  one 
he  shufHles  them  out  and  arranges  them  on  the  broken  desk 
as  if  in  some  pensive  game  of  solitaire.  There  is  Dutch  when 
he  was  a  boy,  when  he  was  a  sailor,  when  he  grew  up  and 
became  a  world  famous  tattooer.  There  is  Dutch  surrounded 
by  queens  of  the  Midway,  Dutch  with  his  arms  debonairly 
thrown  round  the  shoulders  of  snake  charmers  and  other 
bizarre  and  vanished  contemporaries.  The  photographs  are 
yellowed.  They  make  a  curious  collection.  They  make  the 

244 


soulless  piano  sound  a  bit  softer.  A  "where  are  the  snows 
of  yesteryear"  motif  played  on  a  can-can  fife. 

Finally  a  modern  photo  in  a  folder,  unyellowed.  A 
smiling,  wholesome  faced  girl.  Here  Dutch  pauses  in  his  game 
of  solitaire  and  looks  in  silence. 

*'My  daughter,"  he  says  finally.  "I  sent  her  through 
college.  Yeh,  she's  graduated  now  and  has  a  fine  job.  I  help 
her  all  I  can.  What?  Is  she  tattooed?" 

The  world's  greatest  tattoo  artist  bristles  and  glowers 
at  the  designs  on  the  walls,  frowns  at  the  cupids,  nymphs, 
anchors,  dragons  and  butterflies. 

*'I  should  say  not,"  he  mutters.  "She  don't  belong  in 
this  street,  not  here.  She's  got  a  different  life,  and  I  help  her 
all  I  can  and  she  likes  me.  No,  sir,  in  this  street  belongs  only 
those  who  have  a  long  memory.  The  new  ones  should  start 
somewhere  else.  Not,  mind  you,  that  tattooing  ain't  good 
enough  for  anybody.  But  times  have  changed." 

The  piano  obliges  with  "The  Blue  Danube."  A  customer 
saunters  in.  Dutch  is  all  business.  The  electricity  is  switched 
on.  A  blue  spark  crackles.  Dutch  clears  his  throat  and  slaps 
the  customer  proudly  on  the  back. 

"Only  a  little  more  to  go,"  he  explains,  "all  over.  Two 
more  ships  at  sea  and  three  dragons  will  do  the  job,  Heinie. 
And  then,  h'm,  you  will  get  a  job  any  day  in  any  side  show, 
I  can  guarantee  you  that." 

Heinie  grins  hopefully. 


THE  THING   IN  THE  DARK 


It  has  the  usual  Huron  street  ending.  Emergency  case. 
Psychopathic  hospital.  Dunning.  But  the  landlady  talked 
to  the  police  sergeant.  The  landlady  was  curious.  She 
wanted  the  police  sergeant  to  tell  her  something.  And  the 
police  sergeant,  resting  his  chin  on  his  elbow,  leaned  forward 
on  his  high  stool  and  peered  through  the  partition  window  at 
the  landlady — and  said  nothing.  Or  rather,  he  said:  "  don't 
know.  That's  the  way  with  people  sometimes.  They  get 
afraid.'* 

This  man  came  to  Mrs.  Balmer's  rooming-house  in  Huron 
Street  when  it  was  spring.  He  was  a  short,  stocky  man  with  a 
leathery  face  and  little  eyes.  He  identified  himself  as  Joseph 
Crawford,  offered  to  pay  $5  a  week  for  a  1 2  by  12  room  on 
the  thiid  floor  at  the  rear  end  of  the  long  gloomy  hallway  and 
arrived  the  next  day  at  Mrs.  Balmer's  faded  tenement  with  an 
equally  faded  trunk.  Nothing  happened. 

But  when  Mrs.  Balmer  entered  the  room  the  following 
morning  to  straighten  it  up  she  found  several  innovations. 
There  were  four  kerosene  lamps  in  the  room.  They  stood  on 
small  rickety  tables,  one  in  each  corner.  And  there  was  a  new 
electric  light  bulb  in  the  central  fixture.  Mrs.  Balmer  took 
note  of  these  things  with  a  professional  eye  but  said  nothing. 
Idiosyncrasies  are  to  be  expected  of  the  amputated  folk  who 
seek  out  lonely  tenement  bedrooms  for  a  home. 

A  week  later,  however,  Mrs.  Balmer  spoke  to  the  man. 

"You  burn  your  light  all  night,"  said  Mrs.  Balmer,  "and 
while  I  have  no  objection  to  that,  still  it  runs  up  the  electric 
light  bill." 

The  man  agreed  that  this  was  true  and  answered  that 
he  would  pay  $1  extra  each  week  for  the  privilege  of  con 
tinuing  to  burn  the  electric  light  all  night. 

Nothing  happened.  Yet  Mrs.  Balmer,  when  she  had 

246 


KM.  I  In     (\\ 


time  for  such  things  as  contemplation,  grew  curious  about  the 
man  in  the  back  room.  In  fact  she  transferred  her  curiosity 
from  the  Japanese  female  impersonator  on  the  second  floor 
and  the  beautiful  and  remarkably  gowned  middle-aged  woman 
on  the  first  floor  to  this  man  who  kept  four  kerosene  lamps 
and  an  electric  bulb  burning  all  night  on  the  third  floor. 

For  some  time  Mrs.  Balmer  was  worried  over  the  thought 
that  this  man  was  probably  an  experimenter.  He  probably 
fussed  around  with  things  as  an  old  crank  does  sometimes, 
and  he  would  end  by  burning  down  the  house  or  blowing  it 
up — accidentally. 

But  Mrs.  Balmer' s  fears  were  removed  one  evening  when 
she  happened  to  look  down  the  gloomy  hallway  and  notice 
that  this  man's  door  was  open.  A  gay,  festive  illumination 
streamed  out  of  the  opened  doorway  and  Mrs.  Balmer  paid  a 
social  call.  She  found  her  roomer  sitting  in  a  chair,  reading. 
Around  him  blazed  four  large  kerosene  lamps.  But  there  was 
nothing  elese  to  notice.  His  eyes  were  probably  bad,  and 
Mrs.  Balmer,  after  exchanging  a  few  words  on  the  subject  of 
towels,  transportation  and  the  weather,  said  good-night. 

But  always  after  that  Mrs.  Balmer  noticed  that  the  door 
remained  open.  Open  doors  are  frequent  in  rooming-houses. 
People  grow  lonely  and  leave  the  doors  of  their  cubby  holes 
open.  There  is  nothing  odd  about  that.  Yet  one  evening 
while  Mrs.  Balmer  stood  gossiping  with  this  man  in  the  door 
way  she  noticed  something  about  him  that  disturbed  her.  She 
had  noticed  it  first  when  she  looked  in  the  room  before  saying 
hello.  Mr.  Crawford  was  sitting  facing  the  portieres  that  cov 
ered  the  folding  doors  that  partitioned  the  room.  The  por 
tieres  were  a  very  clever  ruse  of  Mrs.  Balmer.  Behind  them 
were  screwed  hooks  and  these  hooks  functioned  as  a  clothes- 
closet. 

Mrs.  Balmer  noticed  that  Mr.  Crawford,  as  she  talked, 
kept  staring  at  the  portieres  and  watching  them  and  that  he 
seemed  very  nervous.  The  next  morning,  when  she  was 

247 


straightening  up  the  room,  Mrs.  Balmer  looked  behind  the  por 
tieres.  An  old  straw  hat,  an  old  coat,  a  few  worn  shirts  hung 
from  the  hooks.  There  was  nothing  else  but  the  folding-door 
and  this  was  not  only  locked  but  nailed  up. 

When  two  months  had  passed  Mrs.  Balmer  had  made  a 
discovery.  It  had  to  do  with  the  four  kerosene  lamps  and 
the  extra  large  electric  bulb  and  the  portieres.  But  it  was  an 
irritating  discovery,  since  it  made  everything  more  mysterious 
than  ever  in  the  landlady's  mind. 

She  had  caught  many  glimpses  of  this  man  in  the  back 
room  when  he  wasn't  looking.  Of  evenings  he  sat  with  his 
door  opened  and  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  portieres.  He 
would  sit  like  that  for  hours  and  his  leathery  face  would  become 
gray.  His  little  eyes  would  widen  and  his  body  would  hunch 
up  as  if  he  were  stiffening.  But  nothing  happened. 

Finally,  however,  Mrs.  Balmer  began  to  talk.  She  didn't 
like  this  man  Crawford.  It  made  her  nervous  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  him  in  his  too-brightly  lighted  room,  sitting  hour 
after  hour  staring  at  the  portieres — as  if  there  was  something 
behind  them,  when  there  was  nothing  behind  them  except  an 
old  hat  and  coat  and  shirt.  She  looked  every  morning. 

But  he  paid  his  rent  regularly.  He  left  in  the  morning 
regularly  and  always  returned  at  eight  o'clock.  He  was  an 
ideal  roomer — except  that  there  never  is  an  ideal  roomer — 
but  Mrs.  Balmer  couldn't  stand  his  lights  and  his  watching  the 
portieres.  It  frightened  her. 

Screams  sometimes  sound  in  a  rooming-house.  One 
night — it  was  after  midnight — Mrs.  Balmer  woke  up.  The 
darkened  house  seemed  filled  with  noises.  A  man  was 
screaming. 

Mrs.  Balmer  got  dressed  and  called  the  janitor.  There 
was  no  doubt  in  her  mind  where  the  noises  came  from.  Some 
of  the  roomers  were  awake  and  looking  sleepily  and  fright 
ened  ly  out  of  their  doorways.  Mrs.  Balmer  and  the  janitor 

248 


hurried  to  the  back  room  on  the  third  floor.     It  was  Crawford 
screaming. 

His  door  was  closed,  but  it  opened  when  the  janitor 
turned  the  knob.  Mr.  Crawford  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
portieres  in  the  too-brightly  lighted  room  and  screaming.  His 
arms,  as  if  overcoming  some  awful  resistance,  shot  out,  and 
his  hands  seized  the  portieres.  With  the  amazing  screams 
still  coming  from  his  throat,  Mr.  Crawford  tore  crazily  at  the 
portieres  until  they  ripped  from  the  rod  above  the  folding- 
door.  They  came  down  and  the  man  fell  with  them.  Over 
him,  hanging  on  the  "clothes-closet**  hooks,  were  revealed 
an  old  straw  hat,  an  old  coat  and  a  worn  shirt. 

**You  see,"  said  Mrs.  Balmer  to  the  police  sergeant,  **he 
was  afraid  of  something  and  he  couldn't  stand  the  dark. 
And  the  portieres  always  frightened  him.  But  the  doctor 
wasn't  able  to  do  anything  with  him.  The  doctor  says  there 
was  some  secret  about  it  and  that  Mr.  Crawford  went  crazy 
because  of  this  secret.  The  only  thing  they  found  out  about 
him  was  that  he  used  to  be  a  sailor.*' 


AN   OLD  AUDIENCE  SPEAKS 

Tired,  madam?  That  is  nothing  remarkable.  So  are  we, 
whose  faces  you  see  from  across  the  footlights,  faces  like  rows 
of  wilted  plants  in  the  gloom  of  this  decrepit  theater.  We  are 
all  very  tired. 

It  is  Saturday  afternoon.  For  a  little  while  yesterday 
there  was  spring  in  the  streets.  But  now  it  has  grown  cold 
again.  The  wind  blows.  The  buildings  wear  a  bald,  cheerless 
look. 

What  are  we  tired  about?  God  knows.  Perhaps  be 
cause  winter  is  so  long  in  passing.  Or,  perhaps,  because  spring 
will  be  so  long  in  passing.  Tired  of  waiting  for  tomorrow. 

So  you  dance  for  us.  We  have  paid  50  cents  each  to  see 
the  show.  This  abominable  orchestra  is  out  of  tune.  The 
fiddles  scrape,  the  piano  makes  clattering  sounds.  And  you, 
madam,  are  tired.  The  gay  purple  tights,  the  gilded  bodice, 
the  sultana's  toque,  or  whatever  it  is,  do  not  deceive  us.  Your 
legs,  madam,  are  not  as  shapely  as  they  were  once.  And  your 
body — ah,  bodies  grow  old. 

Yes,  we  are  not  deceived,  madam.  You  have  come  to  us 
— last.  There  were  others  before  us,  others  reaching  far  back, 
to  whom  you  gave  your  youth.  Others  for  whom  you  danced 
when  your  legs  were,  perhaps,  like  two  spring  mornings,  and 
when  your  body  was,  perhaps,  like  a  pretty  laugh. 

Here  are  the  tired  ones.  From  the  South  Clark  and 
South  State  streets  bed-houses.  The  kinds  of  faces  that  the 
smart  movie  directors  hire  as  "types"  for  the  underworld 
scenes  or  the  slum  scenes. 

It  is  Saturday  afternoon  and  we  walked  up  and  down  the 
street,  looking  at  the  lithographs  outside  the  decrepit  theater 
fronts.  And  when  it  got  too  cold  to  walk  any  farther  we 
dropped  in,  forking  out  four  bits  for  the  privilege. 

And  we  expect  nothing,  madam.  There  will  be  no  great 

250 


music  for  us.  And  what  scenery  there  is  behind  the  footlights 
will  be  faded  and  patched.  The  jokes  will  be  things  that 
make  no  one  laugh.  And  the  dancers,  madam,  will  be  like 
you.  Tired,  heavy-faced  dancers,  whose  legs  flop,  whose 
bodies  bounce  while  the  abominable  orchestra  plays. 

But  it  is  warm  where  we  sit.  We  half  shut  our  eyes  and 
tired  little  dreams  come  to  us.  And  you,  madam,  going 
wearily  through  your  steps,  are  the  Joy  of  Life.  Your  hoarse 
voice,  singing  indecipherable  words  about  dearie  and  honey 
and  my  jazz  baby,  your  sagging  shoulders  layered  with  powder 
and  jerking  to  the  music,  the  rigid,  lifeless  grin  of  your  cruelly 
painted  lips — these  things  and  the  torn,  smeared  papier-mache 
ballroom  interior — these  are  the  Joy  of  Life. 

Tired  little  dreams,  worth  almost  the  four  bits.  Do  you 
remember  other  audiences,  madam?  As  we  remember  other 
dancers?  Do  you  recall  the  gay,  dark  glow  of  ornate  audi 
toriums,  and  do  you  remember  when  you  were  young  and 
there  were  many  tomorrows?  As  we  do?  Oh,  dearie,  dearie, 
how  mah  heart  grows  weary,  waitin*  for  mah  baby  for  to  come 
back  home.  Very  good,  madam.  Although  the  voice  is  a 
bit  cracked.  Now  dance.  Lumber  across  the  stage  in  your 
purple  tights,  wiggle  around  in  your  sultana's  toque.  That's 
the  baby.  And  kick  your  legs  at  us  as  you  exit.  Ah,  what  a 
kick!  But  never  mind.  It  is  quite  good  enough  for  us.  And 
—it  reminds  us. 

|We  applaud.  Does  the  noise  sound  ghastly?  What  is 
it  we  applaud?  God  knows.  But  applause  is  a  habit.  One 
applauds  in  a  theater.  How  does  it  sound  in  the  wings  to  you, 
madam,  our  applause?  Rather  meaningless,  eh?  And  not 
interesting  at  all?  Ah,  we  forgive  you  for  that,  for  not  feel 
ing  a  great  thrill  at  our  applause.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  rather 
piquant  thing,  our  applause.  Considering  how  cold  it  is  out 
side,  how  long  winter  is  in  passing.  Considering  how  cheer 
less  the  buildings  look. 

251 


Put  on  the  red  ball  gown  and  come  out  and  crack  jokes 
with  the  hop-headed-looking  juvenile  lead.  Greetings,  madam. 
How  marvelous  you  look  in  this  ball  gown!  Ah,  indeed!  You 
were  walking  down  the  street  the  other  day  and  chanced  to 
meet.  Hm,  we've  heard  that  joke,  but  we'll  laugh  again.  Matri 
mony.  I'll  tell  you  what  marriage  is.  A  lottery.  Yes,  we've 
heard  that  one,  too.  Accept  our  laughter,  nevertheless. 

Your  jokes,  madam,  are  neither  young  nor  refined.  But 
— neither  are  we.  And  your  wit  is  somewhat  coarse  and 
pointless.  But  so  are  we.  And  your  voice  is  a  trifle  tired  and 
cracked  and  loud.  But  so  is  our  laughter.  We  are  even, 
quite  even,  madam.  If  you  were  better  once,  so  were  we.  If 
you  remember  sweeter  laughter,  why  we  remember  more 
charming  jests.  Go  on,  Dolores,  our  lady  of  jokes,  you're 
worth  the  four  bits. 

Now  the  street  seems  a  bit  colder  because  it  was  warmer 
in  the  theater.  Where  do  we  go  from  here?  Up  and  down, 
up  and  down  the  old  street.  A  very  pleasant  afternoon. 
Spent  in  laughter  and  applause.  Once  there  was  booze  for 
a  nickel  and  a  dime.  But  it  was  found  necessary  to  improve 
the  morals  of  the  nation.  No  booze  today. 

That  is  quite  a  brave  photograph  of  you  outside  the 
theater,  madam.  The  Dancing  Venus.  If  we  had  tears  we 
would  shed  them.  The  Dancing  Venus,  indeed!  We  smile  as 
you  smiled  yourself  when  you  saw  it  for  the  first  time.  But — 
good-by.  Master  Francois  Villon  sang  it  all  long  ago.  Yes 
terdays,  yesterdays,  here  is  a  street  of  yesterdays. 

And  we,  the  tired  ones,  the  brutal-faced,  bitter-eyed  ones, 
the  beaten  ones — we  walk  up  and  down  the  cold  street,  peer 
ing  at  the  cheerless  buildings.  Life  takes  a  long  time  to  pass. 
But  without  changing  our  bitter,  brutal  faces  we  bow  this  after 
noon,  madam,  to  the  memory  of  you. 

252 


We  paid  four  bits  to  see  you.  Our  Lady  of  Jokes,  and  in 
this  cold,  sunless  street  we  grin,  we  smirk,  we  leer  a  salutation 
to  your  photograph  and  the  phrase  beneath  it  that  laughs 
mockingly  back  at  us — Oh,  Dancing  Venus! 


MISHKIIM'S    MINYON 

We  were  discussing  vacations  and  Sammy,  who  is  eleven 
years  old  going  on  twelve,  listened  nervously  to  his  father. 
Finally  Sammy  spoke  up : 

"I  won't  go,"  he  bristled.  "No,  I  won't  if  I  gotta  tell  the 
conductor  I'm  under  five.  I  ain't  going." 

Sammy's  father  coughed  with  some  embarrassment. 

"Sha!"  said  Feodor  Mishkin,  removing  his  attention  from 
the  bowl  of  fruit,  "I  see  it  takes  more  than  naturalization  papers 
to  change  a  landsmann  from  Kremetchuk."  And  he  fastened 
a  humorous  eye  upon  Sammy's  father. 

"It's  like  this,"  continued  the  Falstaffian  one  from 
Roosevelt  Road:  "In  Russia  where  my  friend  here,  Hershela 
comes  from,  that  is  in  Russia  of  the  good  old  days  where  there 
were  pogroms  and  ghettos  and  provocateurs — ah,  I  grow 
homesick  for  that  old  Russia  sometimes — the  Jews  were  not 
always  so  honest  as  they  might  be.  Don't  interrupt  me, 
Hershela.  My  friend  here  I  want  to  tell  a  story  to  is  a  journal 
ist  and  he  will  understand  I  am  no  'antishemite*  if  I  explain  how 
it  is  that  you  want  your  son  Sammy  to  tell  the  conductor  he  is 
under  five." 


Turning  to  me  Mishkin  grinned  and  proceeded. 

"The  Jews,  as  you  know,  are  great  travelers,"  he  said. 
"They  have  traveled  more  than  all  the  other  peoples  put  to 
gether.  And  yet,  they  don't  like  to  pay  car  fare,  in  Russia, 
particular.  I  can  remember  my  father,  who  was  a  good  rabbi 
and  a  holy  man.  Yes,  but  when  it  came  time  to  ride  on  the 
train  from  one  city  to  another  he  would  fold  up  his  long  beard 
and  crawl  under  the  seat.  , 

"It  was  only  on  such  an  occasion  that  my  father  would 
talk  to  a  woman.  He  would^actually  rather,  cut  off  his  right 
hand  than  talk  to  a  woman  in  public  that  he  didn't  know. 
This  was  because  Rabbi  Mishkin,  my  father,  was  a  holy  man. 

254 


But  he  was  not  above  asking  a  woman  to  spread  out  her  skirts 
so  that  the  inspector  coming  through  the  train  couldn't  see  him 
under  the  seat.  N. 

"Of  course,  youxhad  to  pay  the  conductors.  But  a  ruble 
was  enough,  not  ten  or  twenty  rubles  like  the  fare  called  for. 
And  the  conductors  were  always  glad  to  have  Jews  ride  on 
their  train  because  it  meant  a>' private  revenue  for  them.  I 
remember  that  the  conductors  on  the  line  running  through 
Kremetchuk  had  learned  a  few  words  of  Yiddish.  For 
instance,  when  the  train  would  stop  at  a  station  the  conductor 
would  walk  up  and  down  the  platform  and  cry  out  a  few 
times — mu  Dentil.  This  meant  that  the  inspector  wasn't  on  the 
train  and  you  could  jump  on  and  hide  under  the  seats.  Or  if 
the  inspector  was  on  the  train  the  conductor  would  walk  up  and 
down  and  yell  a  'few  times,  Malchamovis!  This  is  a  Hebrew 
word  that  means  Evil  Angel  and  it  was  the  signal  for  nothing 
doing. 

"The  story  I  remember  is  on  a  train  going  out  of  Kiev," 
said  Mishkin.  "Years  ago  it  was.  I  was  sitting  in  the  train 
reading  some  Russian  papers  when  I  heard  three  old  Jews 
talking.  They  had  long  white  beards  and  there  were  marks 
on  their  foreheads  from  where  they  laid  twillum.  Yes,  I  saw 
that  they  were  holy  men  and  pretty  soon  I  heard  that  they 
were  upset  about  something.  You  know  what?  I'll  tell  you. 

"For  a  religious  Jew  in  the  old  country  to  pass  an  eve 
ning  without  a  minyon  is  a  sin.  A  minyon  is  a  prayer  that  is 
said  at  evening.  And  to  make  a  minyon  there  must  be  ten 
Jews.  And  they  must  stand  up  when  they  pray.  Of  course, 
if  you  are  somewhere  where  there  are  no  ten  Jews,  then  maybe 
it's  all  right  to  say  it  with  three  or  four  Jews  only. 

"So  these  holy  men  on  the  train  were  arguing  if  they 
should  have  a  minyon  or  not  because  there  were  only  three  of 
them.  But  finally  they  decided  after  a  theological  discussion 
that  it  would  be  all  right  to  have  the  minyon.  It  was  dark  al 
ready  and  the  train  was  going  fast  and  the  three  Jews  stood  up 

255 


in  their  place  at  the  end  of  the  car  and  began  the  prayer. 

"And  pretty  soon  I  began  to  hear  voices.  Yes,  from 
under  nearly  every  seat.  Voices  praying.  A  mumble-bumble 
that  filled  the  car.  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it  for  a  few 
minutes.  But  then  I  remembered.  Of  course,  the  car  was 
full  of  rabbis  or  at  least  holy  men  and  they  were  as  usual  rid 
ing  with  their  beards  folded  up  under  the  seats. 

"So,"  smiled  Mishkin,  "the  prayer  continued  and  some 
of  the  passengers  who  were  listening  began  to  smile.  You  can 
imagine.  But  the  three  Jews  paid  no  attention.  They  went  on 
with  the  minyon.  And  now,  listen,  now  comes  the  whole  story. 
You  will  laugh.  But  it  is  true.  I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes. 

"The  prayer,  like  I  told  you,  must  be  said  standing  up. 
At  least  it  is  a  sin  to  say  the  last  part  of  the  prayer,  particularly 
the  'amen,'  without  standing  up.  So  as  the  prayer  came  to 
wards  its  finish  imagine  what  happened.  From  under  a  dozen 
seats  began  to  appear  old  Jews  with  white  beards.  They 
crawled  out  and  without  brushing  themselves  off  stood  up  and 
when  the  'amen*  finally  came  there  were  eleven  Jews  standing 
up  in  a  group  and  praying.  Under  the  seats  it  was  completely 
vacant. 

"And  just  at  this  moment,  when  the  'amen'  filled  the  car, 
who  should  come  through  but  the  inspector  in  his  uniform 
with  his  lantern.  When  he  saw  this  whole  car  full  of  passengers 
he  hadn't  seen  before  he  stopped  in  surprise.  And  the  finish 
of  it  was  that  they  all  had  to  pay  their  fare — extra  fare,  too. 

"It  is  a  nice  story,  don't  you  think,  Hershela,**  Mishkin 
laughed.  "It  shows  a  lot  of  things,  but  principally  it  shows 
that  a  holy  man  is  a  holy  man  first  and  that  he  will  sacrifice 
himself  to  an  inquisition  in  Madrid  or  a  train  inspector  in  Kiev 
for  the  simple  sake  of  saying  his  'amen*  just  as  he  believed  it 
should  be  said  and  just  as  he  wants  to  say  it.** 

Sammy's  father  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

256 


"I  don't  see  how  what  you  say  has  anything  to  do  with 
what  my  son  said,"  he  demurred.  '*Sammy  looks  user  more 
than  five  and  what  harm  is  there  in  saving  $  1 5  if — 

Sammy  interrupted  with  a  wail. 

"I  won't  go,"  he  cried.  "No,  if  I  gotta  tell  the  conductor 
I'm  under  five  I  better  stay  home.  I  don't  wanna  go.  He'll 
know  I'm  'leven  going  on  twelve." 

"All  right,  all  right,"  sighed  Sammy's  father.  "But  you 
see,"  he  added,  turning  to  Mishkin,  "it  ain't  on  account  of 
wanting  to  have  a  minyon  that  my  son  has  such  high  ideas." 


r     t.  -•''•     '  ^&    •     \l       '*>.%>'      *       >  't'¥'.'.V'''   *'  •'    •      ;J       ••  '  .-       V-<      .   '^^~ 


•I      Mi 


SOCIABLE  GAMBLERS 

"Yes,  it  do  interfere  with  their  game,"  said  Bill  Cochran, 
the  deputy  sheriff  frdm  Tom  Freeman's  office.  He  cut  himself 
a  slice  of  chewing  tobacco  and  glanced  meditatively  out  of 
the  window  of  the  Dearborn  Street  bastile.  Whereat  he 
repeated  with  gentle  emphasis,  "It  do.** 

A  long  rain  was  leaning  against  the  walls  of  the  county 
jail.  A  dismal  yellowish  gloom  drifted  up  and  down  the 
street.  Deputy  Cochran,  with  an  effort,  detached  his  eye  from 
the  lugubrious  scene  of  the  rain  and  the  day-dark  and  spoke 
up  brightly. 

"But  at  that,"  said  he,  "I  don't  think  their  being  doomed 
for  to  hang  can  be  held  entirely  responsible  for  their  losing. 
You  see,  I've  made  quite  a  study  of  the  game  o'  rhummy,  not 
to  mention  pinochle  and  other  such  games  of  chance,  and  if 
I  do  say  so  myself  I  doubt  there's  the  man  in  Chicago,  doomed 
for  to  hang  or  otherwise,  who  would  find  me  an  easy  mark. 
Still,  as  I  say,  in  the  case  of  these  gentlemen  who  you  refer  to — 
to  wit,  the  doomed  men  as  I  have  acted  as  death  watch  for — 
it  do  interfere  with  their  game.  There's  no  denying  that." 

Now  the  rain  chattered  darkly  on  the  grated  windows 
of  the  Dearborn  Street  bastile  and  Deputy  Cochran  tilted  back 
in  his  chair  and  thought  pensively  and  in  silence  of  life  and 
death  and  high,  low,  jack  and  the  game. 

"They  pick  me  out  for  the  death  watch  on  account  1 
have  a  way  with  doomed  men,"  he  remarked  at  last,  his  voice 
modestly  self-conscious.  "Some  of  the  deputies  is  inclined 
to  get  a  bit  sad,  you  know.  Or  to  let  their  nerves  go  away 
with  them.  But  me,  I  feel  as  the  best  thing  to  do  in  the  crisis 
to  which  I  refer  is  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

"So  when  I  sit  in  on  the  death  watch  I  faces  myself  with 
the  truth.  I  says  to  myself  right  away:  'Bill,  this  young  feller 
here  is  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  dead,  in  a  few  hours. 
Which  being  the  case,  there's  no  use  wasting  any  more  time  or 

260 


thought  on  the  matter/  So  after  this  self -communication,  I 
usually  says  to  the  young  feller  under  observation  by  the  death 
watch,  'Cheerio,  m*  lad.  Is  there  anything  in  particular  as 
you'd  like  to  discuss/ 

"I  was  a  bit  thick  with  the  Abyssinian  prince,  Grover 
Redding,  you  recall.  The  man  spent  the  whole  time  we  were 
with  him  praying  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  singing  hymns. 
Not  that  I  begrudged  the  fellow  this  privilege.  But  if  you've 
ever  heard  a  man  who's  going  to  be  hanged  in  a  few  hours 
try  to  pass  the  time  in  continual  prayers  shouted  at  the  top  of 
his  voice  you'll  understand  our  predicament. 

"Then  there  was  Antonio  Lopez.  I  was  death  watch  on 
him  and  a  difficult  task  that  was.  The  lad  kept  up  his  pretense 
that  he  fancied  himself  a  rooster  to  the  very  end.  He  crouched 
on  the  chair  on  his  feet  and  flapped  his  elbows  like  as  they 
were  wings  and  emitted  rooster  calls  all  night  long.  I  tried 
to  dissuade  him  and  offered  to  play  him  any  game  he  wished 
for  any  stake.  But  the  only  way  he  could  reconcile  himself 
to  the  approaching  fatal  dawn  was  to  crow  like  a  rooster.  I 
thought  to  cheer  him  up  toward  the  end  by  congratulating  him 
on  his  excellent  imitations,  as  I  bore  him  no  ill  will  despite 
he  gave  us  all  a  terrible  headache  before  the  death  march  took 
him  away." 

Now  the  rain  dropped  in  long,  quick  lines  outside  the 
window  and  the  pavements  below  glowed  like  dark  mirrors. 
Deputy  Cochran,  however,  had  become  oblivious  to  the  scene. 
His  eyes  withdrew  themselves  from  the  rain-dark  and  casually 
traced  themselves  over  the  memories  his  calling  had  left  him. 

"There  was  Blacky  Weed  some  years  ago/*  he  went  on. 
"And  Viana,  the  choir  boy.  And  to  come  down  to  more 
recent  incidents,  Harry  Ward,  the  'Lone  Wolf/  I  played  cards 
with  them  all  and  can  truthfully  say  I  won  most  of  the  games 
played  to  which  I  refer,  with  the  exception  of  those  played 
with  the  'Lone  Wolf/  hanged  recently,  if  you  recall. 

"I  will  say  that  the  chief  trouble  with  the  doomed  men  as 

261 


1  have  engaged  in  games  of  chance  with  is  their  inability  to 
concentrate.  Now  cards,  to  be  properly  played,  requires  above 
all  a  gift  of  the  ability  to  concentrate.  Recognizing  this  I  have 
always  refused  to  play  for  money  with  the  doomed  as  I  have 
been  watch  over,  saying  to  them  when  they  pressed  the  matter, 
'No,  m'  lad.  Let's  make  it  just  a  sociable  game  for  the  fun 
there's  in  it  rather  than  play  for  money/ 

*  There  are  others  not  so  scrupulous,"  hinted  Deputy 
Cochran.  "Take  for  instance,  the  example  of  the  newspaper 
man  as  was  Eddie  Brislane' s  friend  and  comforter.  He  was 
with  him  in  the  cell  most  of  the  time  before  the  hanging,  and 
two  days  before  the  aforesaid  he  paid  Brislane  $50  for  a  story 
to  be  printed  exclusively  in  his  paper.  Then  this  newspaper 
man,  which  I  consider  unethical  under  the  circumstances, 
played  Brislane  poker,  and  what  with  the  doomed  man's  lack 
of  concentration  and  his  inability  to  take  advantage  of  the 
turns  of  the  game,  therefore,  this  newspaper  man  won  back 
his  $50  and  some  few  dollars  besides. 

"As  for  me,  I  doubt  whether  all  my  card  playing  with 
these  doomed  men,  successful  though  it  has  been,  has  ever 
brought  me  as  much  as  a  half  dollar.  No,  as  I  said,  sociability 
is  the  object  of  these  games  and  all  I  aim  for  is  to  put  the 
doomed  man  at  his  ease  for  the  time  being.*' 

Deputy  Cochran  suddenly  smiled,  although  before  an 
impersonal  air  had  marked  his  discourse. 

"There  was  the  'Lone  Wolf,'  as  I  mentioned,"  he  con 
tinued.  "A  cold-blooded  feller  and  a  sinner  to  the  end.  But 
he  was  the  best  rhummy  player  as  I  have  ever  had  the  pleasure 
of  matching  skill  with.  Yes,  sir,  it  was  his  ability  for  to  concen 
trate.  As  I  said,  that  is  ,the  prime  ability  necessary  and  the 
'Lone  Wolf  had  more  concentration  than  any  one  I  have 
matched  skill  with  in  or  out  of  the  jail. 

"That  was  an  interesting  evening  we  spent  on  the  death 
watch  for  the  'Lone  Wolf.'  He  regaled  us  for  an  hour  or  so 
telling  us  how  he  used  to  steal  motor  cars.  Yes,  sir,  whenever 

262 


the  'Lone  Wolf  wanted  a  new  car  he  just  went  out  and  took 
it.  A  cold-blooded  feller,  as  I  say. 

"Then  he  asked  if  I  would  mind  playing  him  a  game  of 
rhummy  and  I  answered,  'No,  Harry.  As  you  are  aware,  I 
am  here  to  oblige.  So  we  got  out  the  deck  and  Harry  insisted 
upon  gambling.  'Make  it  a  dollar  a  hand,'  he  said.  But  I 
would  listen  to  none  of  that.  We  played  eight  games  in  all 
and  he  beat  me  six  of  them.  Perhaps  I  was  not  at  my  best 
that  night.  But  I  never  played  against  such  a  cold-blooded 
feller.  He  took  a  positive  joy  in  winning  his  games  and  on  the 
whole  acted  like  a  bum  winner,  making  the  most  of  his  unusual 
good  luck.  I  hold  no  grudge  for  that,  however.  But  I  feel 
that  if  we  could  have  continued  the  play  some  other  time  I'd 
easily  have  finished  him  off." 

Now  the  sun  was  slowly  recovering  its  place  and  the  rain 
had  become  a  light  mist.  Deputy  Cochran  seemed  to  regard 
this  as  a  signal  for  a  conclusion. 

"Summing  the  matter  all  up,  pro  and  con,"  he  offered, 
"it  do  interfere  with  their  game  a  lot.  But  I  lay  this  to  the 
fact  that  they  all  fancy  they're  going  to  be  reprieved  and  they 
keep  waiting  and  listening  for  an  announcement  which  will 
save  them  from  the  gallows.  I've  known  some  of  them  to  lead 
a  deuce  thinking  it  was  an  ace  and  vice  versa.  But  at  that  I 
can  fully  recommend  a  good,  sociable  game  of  cards  as  the 
best  way  for  a  doomed  man  to  pass  the  few  hours  before  the 
arrival  of  the  fatal  moment." 


RIPPLES 

It  rains.  People  carry  umbrellas.  A  great  financier  has 
promised  me  an  interview.  The  windows  of  his  club  look 
out  on  a  thousand  umbrellas.  They  bob  along  like  drunken 
beetles. 

Once  in  a  blue  moon  one  becomes  aware  of  people. 
Usually  the  crowds  and  their  endless  faces  are  a  background. 
They  circle  around  one  the  way  ripples  circle  around  a  stone 
that  has  fallen  into  the  water.  The  torments,  elation  of  others; 
the  ambitions,  defeats  of  others;  the  bedlam  of  others — who 
cares?  They  are  no  more  than  the  ripples  which  one's  ego 
creates  in  the  plunge  from  youth  to  age. 

Here,  then,  under  the  umbrellas  outside  the  great  finan 
cier's  club,  are  people.  One  must  marvel.  They  pass  one 
another  without  so  much  as  a  glance.  To  each  of  them  all  the 
others — the  bedlam  of  others — are  ripples  emanating  from 
themselves.  The  great  quests  and  struggles  going  on  and  the 
million  agonies  and  tumults  beating  in  the  veins  of  the  world 
— ripples.  Yes,  vague  and  vaguer  ripples  which  surround  the 
fact  that  one  is  going  to  buy  a  pair  of  suspenders;  which  circle 
the  fact  that  one  is  invited  out  for  dinner  this  evening. 

Ah,  the  smug  and  oblivious  ones  under  umbrellas  I  It 
rains,  but  the  umbrellas  keep  off  the  rain.  The  world  pours  its 
distinctions  and  elations  over  their  souls,  but  other  umbrellas, 
invisible,  keep  off  distractions  and  elations.  And  each  of 
them,  scurrying  along  outside  the  window  of  the  great  finan 
cier's  club,  is  an  omniscient  world  center  to  himself.  The 
great  play  was  written  around  him,  a  blur  of  disasters  and 
ecstasies,  a  sort  of  vast  and  inarticulate  Greek  chorus  mumbling 
an  obbligato  to  the  leitmotif  which  is  at  the  moment  the  pur 
chase  of  a  pair  of  suspenders  or  a  dinner  invitation  for  the 
evening. 

None  so  small  under  these  umbrellas  outside  the  window 
but  fancies  himself  the  center  of  the  cosmos.  None  so  stupid 

265 


but  regards  himself  as  the  oracle  of  the  times.  And  they  scurry 
along  without  a  glance  at  one  another,  each  innately  convinced 
that  his  ideas,  his  prejudices,  his  ambitions,  his  tastes  are  the 
Great  Standard,  the  Normal  Criterion.  Puritan,  paranoiac, 
sybarite,  katatoniac,  hardhead,  dreamer,  coward,  desperado, 
beaten  ones,  striving  ones,  successful  ones — all  flaunt  their 
umbrellas  in  the  rain,  all  unfurl  their  invisible  umbrellas  to 
the  world.  Let  it  rain,  let  it  rain — calamities  and  ecstasies 
tipped  with  fire  and  roaring  with  thunder — nothing  can  disturb 
the  terrible  preoccupation  of  the  plunge  from  youth  to  age. 

The  pavements  gleam  like  dark  mirrors.  The  office 
window  lights  chatter  in  the  gloom.  An  umbrella  pauses. 
The  great  financier  is  giving  directions  to  his  chauffeur.  The 
directions  given,  the  great  financier  stands  in  the  rain  for  a 
moment.  His  eyes  look  up  and  down  the  street.  What  does 
he  see?  Ripples,  vague  and  vaguer  ripples,  that  mark  his 
passage  from  the  limousine  into  the  club. 

He  is  wet.  A  servant  helps  him  remove  his  coat.  Then 
he  comes  to  the  window  and  sinks  into  a  leather  chair  and 
stares  at  the  rain  and  the  umbrellas  outside.  The  great  finan 
cier  has  been  abroad.  His  highly  specialized  mind  has  been 
poking  among  columns  of  figures,  columns  of  reports.  He 
desired  to  find  out  if  possible  what  conditions  abroad  were. 
For  six  months  the  great  financier  closeted  himself  daily  with 
other  great  financiers  and  talked  and  talked  and  discussed  and 
talked. 

But  he  says  nothing.  It  is  curious.  The  whole  world 
and  all  its  marvelous  distractions  seem  to  have  resolved  them 
selves  into  the  curt  sentence,  *'It  rains."  And  somehow  the 
great  financier's  faculty  for  the  glib  manipulation  of  platitudes 
which  has  earned  him  a  reputation  as  a  powerful  economist 
seems  for  the  moment  to  have  abandoned  him.  His  eyes 

266 


remind  one  of  a  boy  standing  on  tiptoe  and  staring  over  a 
fence  at  a  baseball  game. 

The  conversation  finally  begins.  It  runs  something  like 
this.  It  is  the  great  financier  talking.  "Europe.  Oh,  yes. 
Quite  a  mess.  Things  will  pick  up,  however.'*  A  long  pause. 
The  umbrellas  bob  along.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five — the 
financier  counts  up  to  thirty.  Then  he  rubs  his  hands  together 
as  if  he  were  taking  charge  of  a  situation  freshly  arisen  at  a 
board  of  directors'  meeting  and  says  in  a  jovial  voice:  "Where 
were  we?  Oh,  yes.  The  European  situation.  Well,  now, 
what  do  you  want  to  know  in  particular  ?" 

Ah,  this  great  financier  has  columns  of  figures,  columns 
of  reports  and  columns  of  phrases  in  his  head.  Press  a  button 
and  they  will  pop  out.  "Have  a  cigar?"  the  financier  asks. 
Cigars  are  lighted.  "A  rotten  day,"  he  says.  Doesn't  look 
as  if  it  will  clear  up,  either,  does  it?"  Then  he  says,  "I  guess 
this  is  an  off  day  for  me.  No  energy  at  all.  I  swear  I  can't 
think  of  a  thing  to  tell  you  about  the  European  situation." 

He  sits  smoking,  his  eyes  fastened  on  the  scene  outside 
the  window.  His  eyes  seem  to  be  searching  as  if  for  meanings 
that  withhold  themselves.  Yet  obviously  there  is  no  thought 
in  his  head.  A  mood  has  wormed  its  way  through  the  columns 
of  figures,  columns  of  reports,  and  taken  possession  of  him. 
This  is  bad  for  a  financier.  It  is  obvious  that  the  umbrellas 
outside  are  for  the  moment  something  other  than  ripples; 
that  the  great  play  of  life  outside  is  something  other  than  an 
inarticulate  Greek  chorus  mumbled  as  an  obbligato  for  him 
alone. 

The  great  financier  is  aware  of  something.  Of  what? 
He  shakes  his  head,  as  if  to  question  himself.  Of  nothing 
he  can  tell.  Of  the  fact  that  a  great  financier  is  an  atom  like 
other  atoms  dancing  in  a  chaos  of  atoms.  Of  the  fact  that 
each  of  the  umbrellas  crawling  past  under  his  window  is  as 
important  as  himself.  The  great  financier's  ego  is  taking  a  rest 
and  dreams  naked  of  words  crowd  in  to  distract  him. 

267 


"We  have  in  Europe  a  peculiar  situation/*  he  says. 
"England  and  France,  although  hitched  to  the  same  wagon, 
pull  in  different  directions.  England  must  build  up  her  trade. 
France  must  build  up  her  morale.  These  involve  different 
efforts.  To  build  up  her  trade  England  must  re-establish  Ger 
many.  To  build  up  her  morale  France  must  see  that  Germany 
is  not  re-established  and  that  it  remains  forever  a  beaten 
enemy." 

The  great  financier  looks  at  his  watch  suddenly.  "By 
Jove!"  he  says.  "By  Jove!"  He  has  to  go.  He  is  sorry  the 
interview  was  a  failure.  But  a  rotten  day  for  thinking.  Back 
into  his  raincoat.  A  limousine  has  drawn  up.  A  servant 
helps  him  to  dress.  In  a  moment  another  umbrella  has  joined 
the  crawl  of  umbrellas  over  the  pavement. 

It  rains.     And  a  great  financier  is  riding  home  to  dinner. 


PITZELA'S  SON 

"His  name?"  said  Feodor  Mishkin.  **Hm!  Always  you 
want  names.  Is  life  a  matter  of  names  and  addresses  or  is  it 
something  else?" 

"But  the  story  would  be  better,  Feodor,  with  names  in  it." 

The  rotund  and  omniscient  journalist  from  the  west  side 
muttered  to  himself  in  Russian. 

"Better!"  he  repeated.  "And  why  better?  If  I  tell  you 
his  name  is  Yankel  or  Berella  or  Chaim  Duvit  do  you  know 
any  more  than  if  I  tell  you  his  name  is  Pitzela?" 

"No.  We  will  drop  the  matter.  I  will  call  him  Chaim 
Yankel." 

"You  will  call  him  Chaim  Yankel!  And  what  for?  His 
name  is  Pitzela  and  not  Chaim  Yankel." 

"Thanks." 

"You  can  go  anywhere  on  Maxwell  Street  and  ask  any 
body  you  meet  do  they  know  Pitzela  and  they  will  say:  'Do 
we  know  Pitzela?  We  know  Pitzela  all  right/  So  what  is 
there  to  be  gained  by  calling  him  Chaim  Yankel?" 

"Nothing,  Feodor.     It  was  a  mistake  even  to  think  of  it." 

"It  was.  Well,  as  I  was  telling  you  before  you  began  this 
interruption  about  names,  he  is  exactly  1  1 0  years  old.  Can 
you  imagine  a  man  1  10  years  old?  A  man  1  10  years  old  is 
an  unusual  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is,  Feodor.     But  I  once  knew  a  man  1  1 3  years  old." 

"Ha!  And  what  kind  of  a  man  was  he?  Did  he  dance 
jigs?  Did  he  crack  nuts  with  his  teeth?  Did  he  drink  like  a 
fish?" 

"No,  he  was  an  old  man  and  very  sad." 

"You  see!  He  was  sad.  So  what  has  he  to  do  with 
Pitzela?  Nothing.  Pitzela  laughs  all  day  long.  And  he 
dances  jigs.  And  he  cracks  nuts  with  his  teeth.  Mind  you, 
a  man  1  1 0  years  old  cracks  nuts  with  his  teeth !  Can  you 
imagine  such  a  thing?" 

269 


**No  Feodor.     It  is  amazing/* 

"Amazing?  Why  amazing?  Everything  that  happens 
different  from  what  you  know  is  amazing  to  you  I  You  are  very 
naive.  You  know  what  naive  means?  It  is  French." 

"I  know  what  naive  means,  Feodor.  Go  on  about 
Pitzela." 

"Naive  means  to  be  childish  late  in  life.  In  a  way  you 
are  like  Pitzela,  despite  the  difference  in  your  ages.  He  is 
naive.  You  know  what  he  wants?" 

"What?" 

"This  Pitzela  wants  to  show  everybody  how  young  he  is. 
That's  his  central  ambition.  He  don't  talk  English  much,  but 
when  you  ask  him,  Pitzela,  how  do  you  feel  today?'  he  says 
to  you  right  back,  *Oi,  me?  I'm  full  o'  pep.'  Then  if  you  ask 
him,  'How  old  are  you,  Pitzela?'  he  says:  'Old?  What  does 
it  matter  how  old  I  am?  I  am  just  beginning  to  enjoy  myself. 
And  when  you  talk  about  my  dying  don't  laugh  too  much. 
Because,  you  know,  I  will  attend  all  your  funerals.  When  I 
am  300  years  old  I  will  be  burying  your  grandchildren.*  And 
he  will  laugh.  Do  you  like  the  story?" 

"Yes,  Feodor.  But  it  isn't  long  enough.  I  will  have  to 
go  out  and  see  Pitzela  and  describe  him  and  that  will  make 
the  story  long  enough." 

"It  isn't  long  enough?  What  do  you  mean?  I  just  begun. 
The  story  ain*t  about  Pitzela  at  all.  So  why  should  you  go  see 
Pitzela?" 

"But  I  thought  it  was  about  Pitzela." 

"You  thought!  Hm!  Well,  you  see  what  good  it  does  you 
to  think.  For  according  to  your  thinking  the  story  is  already 
finished.  Whereas  according  to  me  the  story  is  only  just 
beginning.** 

"But  you  said  it  was  about  Pitzela,  Feodor.  So  I  believed 
you." 

"I  said  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  merely  asked  you  if  you 
knew  Pitzela.  The  story  is  entirely  about  Pitzela's  son." 

220 


"Aha!    This  Pitzela  has  a  son.     That's  interesting." 

"Of  course  it  is.  Pitzela's  son  is  a  man  87  years  old. 
Ask  anybody  on  Maxwell  street  do  they  know  Pitzela's  son 
and  they  will  tell  you:  'Do  we  know  Pitzela's  son?  Hml  It's 
a  scandal.** 

4 'The  editor,  Feodor,  forbids  me  to  write  about  scandals. 
So  be  careful." 

"This  scandal  is  one  you  can  write  about.  This  Pitzela's 
son  is  such  a  poor  old  man  that  he  can  hardly  walk.  He  has  a 
long  white  beard  and  wears  a  yamulka  and  he  has  no  teeth  and 
one  foot  is  already  deep  in  the  grave.  If  you  saw  Pitzela's  son 
you  would  say:  'Why  don't  this  dying  man  go  home  and  sit 
down  instead  of  running  around  like  this?' 

"And  why  don't  he?** 

"Why  don't  he?  Such  a  question!  He  don't  because 
Pitzela  don't  let  him.  Pitzela  is  his  father  and  he  has  to  mind 
his  father.  And  Pitzela  says:  'What!  You  want  to  hang 
around  the  house  like  you  were  an  old  man?  You  are  crazy. 
Look  at  me,  I'm  your  father.  And  you  a  young  man,  my  son, 
act  like  you  were  my  father.  It's  a  scandal.  Come,  we  will 
go  to  the  banquet.'  ' 

"What  banquet,  Feodor?" 

"Oh,  any  banquet.  He  drags  him.  He  don't  let  him  rest. 
And  he  says:  'You  must  shave  off  your  beard.  For  fifteen 
years  you  been  letting  it  grow  and  now  it's  altogether  too  long. 
How  does  it  look  for  me  to  go  around  with  a  son  who  not  only 
can't  walk,  but  has  a  beard  that  makes  him  look  like  Father 
Abraham  himself?'  ' 

"And  what  does  Pitzela's  son  say?" 

"What  can  he  say?  Nothing.  The  doctor  comes  and 
tells  him:  'You  got  to  stay  in  the  house.  You  are  going  out 
too  much.  How  old  are  you?*  And  Pitzela's  son  shakes  his 
tired  head  and  says:  "Eighty-seven  years  old,  doctor.*  And 
the  doctor  gives  strict  orders.  But  Pitzela  comes  in  and 
laughs.  Imagine." 

"Yes,  it's  a  good  story,  Feodor.** 

271 


"A  good  story!  How  do  you  know?  1  ain't  come  to  the 
point  yet.  But  never  mind,  if  you  like  it  so  much  you  don't 
need  any  point/* 

"The  point,  Feodor.    Excuse  me." 

"Well,  the  point  is  that  Pitzela  and  the  way  he  treats  his 
son  is  a  scandal.  You  know  why?  Because  he  uses  his  son 
as  an  advertisement.  Pitzela's  son,  mind  you,  is  so  weak  and 
old  that  he  can  hardly  walk  and  he  carries  a  heavy  cane  and 
his  hands  shake  like  leaves.  And  Pitzela  drags  him  around  all 
over.  To  banquets.  To  political  meetings.  To  the  Yiddish 
theater.  All  over.  He  holds  him  by  the  arm  and  brings  him 
into  the  hall  and  sits  him  down  in  a  chair.  And  Pitzela's  son 
sits  so  tired  and  almost  dead  he  can't  move.  And  then 
Pitzela  jumps  up  and  gets  excited  and  says:  'Look  at  him.  A 
fine  son,  for  you!  Look,  he's  almost  dead.  Tell  me  if  you 
wouldn't  think  he  was  my  father  and  I  was  his  son?  Instead  of 
the  other  way  around?  I  ask  you/  * 

"And  what  does  Pitzela's  son  say,  Feodor?*' 

"Say?  What  can  he  say?  He  looks  up  and  shakes  his 
head  some  more.  He  can  hardly  see.  And  when  the  banquet 
talking  begins  he  falls  asleep  and  Pitzela  has  to  hold  him  up 
from  falling  out  of  the  chair.  And  when  the  food  is  done  and 
the  dessert  comes  Pitzela  leans  over  and  says  to  his  son: 
'Listen.  I  got  a  treat  for  you.  Here/  And  he  reaches  into 
his  pocket  and  brings  out  a  handful  of  hickory  nuts.  'Crack 
them  with  your  teeth,'  he  says,  'like  your  father/  And  when 
his  son  looks  at  him  and  strokes  his  white  beard  and  sighs, 
Pitzela  jumps  up  and  laughs  so  you  can  hear  him  all  over  the 
banquet  hall.  But  the  point  of  the  story  is  that  two  weeks  ago 
Pitzela  went  to  his  grandson's  funeral.  It  was  Pitzela's  son's 
son  and  he  was  a  man  almost  70  years  old.  And  it  was  a 
scandal  at  the  funeral.  Why?  Because  Pitzela  laughed  and 
coming  back  from  the  grave  he  said :  'Look  at  me,  my  grand 
son  dies  and  I  go  to  his  funeral  and  if  he  had  a  son  I  would  go 
to  his,  too,  and  I  would  dance  jigs  both  times/  * 

272 


PANDORA'S   BOX 

A  dark  afternoon  with  summer  thunder  in  the  sky.  The 
fan-shaped  skyscrapers  spread  a  checkerboard  of  window 
lights  through  the  gloom.  It  rains.  People  seem  to  grow 
vaguely  elate  on  the  dark  wet  pavements.  They  hurry  along, 
their  eyes  saying  to  one  another,  "We  have  something  in  com 
mon.  We  are  all  getting  wet  in  the  rain/'  The  crowd  is  no 
longer  quite  so  enigmatic  a  stranger  to  itself.  An  errand  boy 
from  Market  Street  advances  with  leaps  through  the  down 
pour,  a  high  chant  on  his  lips,  "It's  raining.  .  .  .  it's  rain 
ing."  The  rain  mutters  and  the  pavements,  like  darkened 
mirrors,  grow  alive  with  impressionistic  cartoons  of  the  city. 

Inside  the  Washington  Street  book  store  of  Covici- 
McGee  the  electric  lights  gleam  cozily.  New  books  and  old 
books — the  high  shelves  stuffed  with  books  vanish  in  the  ceil 
ing  shadows.  On  a  rainy  day  the  dusty  army  of  books  peers 
coaxingly  from  the  shelves.  Old  tales,  old  myths,  old  wars, 
old  dreams  begin  to  chatter  softly  in  the  shadows — or  it  may 
be  the  chatter  of  the  rain  on  the  pavement  outside.  The 
Great  Philosophers  unbend,  the  Bearded  Classics  sigh,  the 
Pontifical  Critics  of  Life  murmur  "ahem."  Yes,  even  the 
forbidding  works  of  Standard  Authors  grow  lonely  on  the 
high  shelves  on  a  rainy  day.  As  for  the  rag-tag,  ruffle-snuffle 
crowd  in  motley — the  bulged,  spavined,  sniffling  crew  of 
mountebanks,  troubadours,  swashbucklers,  bleary  philoso 
phers,  phantasts  and  adventurers — they  set  up  a  veritable 
witches'  chorus.  Or  it  may  be  the  rain  again  lashing  against  the 
streaming  windows  of  the  book  store. 

People  come  in  out  of  the  rain.  A  girl  without  an  um 
brella,  her  face  wet.  Who?  Perhaps  a  stenographer  hunt 
ing  a  job  and  halted  by  the  rain.  And  then  a  matron  with  an 
old-fashioned  knitted  shopping  bag.  And  a  spinster  with  a 
keen,  kindly  face.  Others,  too.  They  stand  nervously  idle, 

273 


feeling  that  they  are  taking  up  valuable  space  in  an  industrial 
establishment  and  should  perhaps  make  a  purchase.  So  they 
permit  their  eyes  to  drift  politely  toward  the  wares.  And  then 
the  chatter  of  the  books  has  them.  Old  books,  new  books, 
live  books,  dead  books — but  they  move  carelessly  away  and 
toward  the  bargain  tables — "All  Books  30  Cents."  Broken 
down  best  sellers  here — pausing  in  their  gavotte  toward  ob 
livion.  The  next  step  is  the  junk  man — $  1  a  hundred.  Pem- 
bertons,  Wrights,  Farnols,  Websters,  Johnstones,  Porters, 
Wards  and  a  hundred  other  names  reminiscent  more  of  a  page 
in  the  telephone  book  than  a  page  out  of  a  literary  yesterday. 
The  little  gavotte  is  an  old  dance  in  the  second-hand  book 
store.  The  $2-shelf.  The  $1-rack.  The  75-cent  table.  The 
30-cent  grab  counter.  And  finis.  New  scribblings  crowd 
for  place,  old  scribblings  exeunt. 

The  girl  without  an  umbrella  studies  titles.  A  love  story, 
of  course,  and  only  thirty  cents.  An  opened  page  reads,  "he 
took  her  in  his  arms.  .  .  ."  Who  would  not  buy  such  a 
book  on  a  rainy  day? 

It  rains  and  other  people  come  in.  A  middle-aged  man 
in  a  curious  coat,  a  curious  hat  and  a  curious  face.  Slate-col 
ored  skin,  slate-colored  eyes  behind  silver  spectacles.  A 
scholar  in  caricature,  an  Old  Clothes  Dealer  out  of  Alice  in 
Wonderland.  The  rain  runs  from  his  stringy,  slate-colored 
hair.  He  approaches  the  high  shelves,  thrusts  the  silver  spec 
tacles  farther  down  on  his  nose.  In  front  of  him  a  curious  row 
of  literary  gargoyles — "The  Astral  Light,"  "What  and  Where 
Is  God?",  "Man"  by  Dohony  of  Texas,  "The  Star  of  the 
Magi." 

Thin  slate-colored  fingers  fumble  nervously  over  the  title 
backs.  A  second  man,  figure  short,  squat,  red-faced,  crowds 
the  erratic  scholar.  A  third.  The  rain  is  bringing  them  in  in 
numbers.  These  are  the  basement  students  of  the  gargoyle 
philosophies,  the  gargoyle  sciences,  the  gargoyle  religions. 

274 


Perpetual  motion  machine  inventors,  alchemists  with  staring, 
nervous-eyed  medieval  faces,  fourth  dimensionists,  sun  wor 
shippers,  cabalistic  researchers,  voodoo  authorities — the  old- 
book  store  is  suddenly  alive  with  them.  They  move  about 
furtively  with  no  word  for  one  another,  lost  in  their  grotesque 
dreamings. 

On  a  rainy  day  the  city  gives  them  up  and  they  come 
puttering  excitedly  into  the  loop  on  a  quest.  The  world  is  a 
garish  unreality  to  them.  The  streets  and  the  crowds  of  auto 
matic-faced  men  and  women,  the  upward  rush  of  buildings 
and  the  horizontal  rush  of  traffic  are  no  more  than  vague 
grimacings.  Life  is  something  of  which  the  streets  are  obli 
vious.  But  here  on  the  gargoyle  shelves,  the  high,  shadowed 
shelves  of  the  old  book  store — truth  stands  in  all  its  terrible 
reality,  wrapped  in  its  authentic  habiliments.  Dr.  Hickson  of 
the  psychopathic  laboratory- would  give  these  curious  rainy 
day  phantasts  identities  as  weird  as  the  volumes  they  caress. 
But  the  old  book  store  clerk  is  more  kind.  He  lets  them  rum 
mage.  Before  the  rain  ends  they  will  buy  *The  Cradle  of 
the  Giants,"  "The  Key  to  Satanism,"  Cornelius  Agrippa's 
"Natural  Magic,"  "The  Astral  Chord,"  "Occultism  and  Its 
Usages."  They  will  buy  books  by  Jacob  Boehme,  William 
Law,  Sadler,  Hyslop,  Ramachaska.  And  they  will  go  hurry 
ing  home  with  their  treasures  pressed  close  to  them.  Stuffy 
bedrooms  lined  with  hints  of  Sabbatical  horror,  strewn  with 
bizarre  refuse;  musty  smelling  books  out  of  whose  pages  fan 
tastic  shapes  rear  themselves  against  the  gaslights,  macabre 
worlds  in  which  unreason  rides  like  a  headless  D'Artagnan; 
evenings  in  the  park  arguing  suddenly  with  startled  strangers 
on  the  existence  of  the  philosophers'  stone  or  the  astrological 
causes  of  influenza — these  form  a  background  for  the  curious 
men  whom  the  rain  has  drifted  into  the  old  book  store  and 
who  stand  with  their  eyes  haunting  the  gargoyle  titles. 

The  rain  brings  in  another  tribesman — a  famed  though 

275 


somewhat  ragged  bibliomaniac.  His  casual  gestures  hide  the 
sudden  fever  old  books  kindle  in  his  thought.  Old  books — 
old  books,  a  magical  phrase  to  him.  His  eyes  travel  like  a 
lover's  back  and  forth,  up  and  down.  He  knows  them  all— 
the  sets,  the  first  editions,  the  bargains,  the  riff-raff.  A  demo 
cratic  lover  is  here.  But  the  clerk  watches  him.  For  this  lover 
is  an  antagonist.  Yes,  this  somewhat  ragged,  gleaming-eyed 
gentleman  with  the  casual  manner  is  a  terrible  person  to  have 
around  in  a  second-hand  book  store  on  a  rainy  day.  Only  six 
months  ago  one  of  his  horrible  tribe  pounced  upon  Sander's 
"Indian  Wars,"  price  30  cents;  value,  alas,  $150.00.  Only 
two  months  ago  another  of  his  kidney  fell  upon  a  copy  of 
Jean  Jacques  Rosseau's  "Emile"  with  Jean's  own  dedication 
on  the  title  page  to  "His  Majesty,  the  King  of  France."  Price 
75  cents;  value,  gadzooks,  $200. 

There  will  be  nothing  today,  however.  Merely  an 
hour's  caress  of  old  friends  on  the  high  shelves  while  the 
rain  beats  outside.  Unless — unless  this  Stevenson  happens  by 
any  chance  to  be  a  "first."  A  furtive  glance  at  the  title  page. 
No.  The  clerk  sighs  with  relief  as  the  Stevenson  goes  back 
on  the  shelf.  It  might  have  been  something  overlooked. 

The  rain  ends.  The  old  book  store  slowly  empties.  A 
troop  of  men  and  women  saunter  out,  pausing  to  say  farewell 
to  the  gaudily  ragged  tomes  in  the  old  book  store.  The  sky 
has  grown  lighter.  The  buildings  shake  the  last  drops  of 
rain  from  their  spatula  tops.  There  is  a  different-looking, 
well-linened  gentleman  thrusts  his  head  into  the  old  book  store 
and  inquires,  "Have  you  a  copy  of  The  Investors*  Guide'?*' 


ILL.HUMORESQUE 

The  beggar  in  the  street,  sitting  on  the  pavement  against 
the  building  with  his  pleading  face  raised  and  his  arm  out 
stretched — I  don't  like  him.  I  don't  like  the  way  he  tucks 
his  one  good  leg  under  him  in  order  to  convey  the  impression 
that  he  is  entirely  legless.  I  don't  like  the  way  he  thrusts  his 
arm  stump  at  me,  the  way  his  eyes  plead  his  weakness  and 
sorrow. 

He  is  a  presumptuous  and  calculating  scoundrel,  this  beg 
gar.  He  is  a  diabolical  psychologist.  Why  will  people  drop 
coins  into  his  hat?  Ah,  because  when  they  look  at  him  and 
his  misfortunes,  by  a  common  mental  ruse  they  see  themselves 
in  his  place,  and  they  hurriedly  Ring  a  coin  to  this  fugitive  im 
age  of  themselves.  And  because  in  back  of  this  beggar  has 
grown  up  an  insidious  propaganda  that  power  is  wrong,  that 
strength  is  evil,  that  riches  are  vile.  A  strong,  rich  and  pow 
erful  man  cannot  get  into  heaven.  Thus  this  beggar  becomes 
for  an  instant  an  intimidating  symbol  of  perfections.  One 
feels  that  one  should  apologize  for  the  fact  that  one  has  two 
legs,  money  in  one's  pocket  and  hope  in  one's  heart.  One 
flings  him  a  coin,  thus  buying  momentary  absolution  for  not 
being  an  unfortunate — i.  e.,  as  noble  and  non-predatory — as 
the  beggar. 

I  do  not  like  the  way  this  beggar  pleads.  And  yet  after 
I  pass  him  and  remember  his  calculating  expression,  his 
mountebank  tricks,  I  grow  fond  of  him — theoretically.  My 
thought  warms  to  him  as  a  creature  of  intelligence,  of  straight 
forward  and  amusing  cynicisms. 

For  this  beggar  is  aware  of  me  and  the  innumerable  lies 
to  which  I  lamely  submit.  I  am  the  public  to  him — one  of  a 
herd  of  identical  faces  drifting  by.  And  this  beggar  has  per 
fected  a  technique  of  attack.  It  is  his  duty  to  sit  on  the  pave 
ment  and  lay  for  me  and  hit  me  with  a  slapstick  labeled  plati- 

277 


tude  and  soak  me  over  the  head  with  a  bladder  labeled  in 
stern  white  letters:  "The  Poor  Shall  Inherit  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven/* 

And  this  he  does,  the  scoundrel,  grinning  to  himself  as 
the  blows  fall  and  slyly  concealing  his  enthusiasm  as  the  coins 
jingle  into  his  hat.  I  am  one  of  those  who  labor  proudly  at 
the  immemorial  task  of  idealizations.  I  am  the  public  who 
passes  laws  proclaiming  things  wrong,  immoral,  contrary  to 
my  "best  instincts."  Thus  I  have  after  many  centuries  suc 
ceeded  in  creating  a  beautiful  conception — a  marvelous  per- 
son.  This  marvelous  person  represents  what  I  might  be  if  I 
had  neither  ambition  nor  corpuscles,  prejudices  nor  ecstasties, 
greeds,  lusts,  illusions  or  curiosity.  This  marvelous  person  is 
the  beautiful  image,  the  noble  and  flattering  image  of  itself 
that  the  public  rapturously  beholds  when  it  stares  into  the  mir 
ror  of  laws,  conventions,  adages,  platitudes  and  constitutions 
that  it  has  created. 

A  charming  image  to  contemplate.  Learned  men  wax 
full  of  stern  joy  when  they  gaze  upon  this  image.  Kind-hearted 
folk  thrill  with  pride  at  the  thought  that  life  is  at  last  a  care 
fully  policed  force  which  flows  politely  and  properly  through 
the  catalogued  veins  of  this  marvelous  person. 

But  my  beggar  in  the  street — ah,  my  beggar  in  the  street 
knows  better.  My  beggar  in  the  street,  maimed  and  vicious, 
sits  against  the  building  and  wields  his  bladder  and  his  slap 
stick  on  me.  Whang!  A  platitude  on  the  rear.  Bam  I  A 
bromide  on  the  bean!  And  I  shell  out  a  dime  and  hurry  on. 
I  do  not  like  this  beggar. 

But  I  grow  warm  with  fellowship  toward  him  after  I  have 
left  him  behind.  There  is  something  comradely  about  his 
amazing  cynicism.  People,  thinks  this  beggar,  are  ashamed 
of  themselves  for  being  strong,  for  having  two  legs,  for  not 
being  poor,  brow-beaten,  cheek-turning  humble  mendicants. 
People,  thinks  this  beggar,  are  secretly  ashamed  of  themselves 

278 


for  being  part  of  success.  And  their  shame  is  inspired  by  fear. 
When  they  see  me  they  suddenly  feel  uncertain  about  them 
selves.  When  they  see  me  they  think  that  reverses  and  misfor 
tunes  and  calamities  might  overtake  them  and  reduce  them  to 
my  condition.  Thinking  this,  they  grow  indignant  for  an  in 
stant  with  a  society  that  produces  beggars.  Not  because  it 
produced  me.  But  perhaps  it  might  produce  them — as  beggars. 
And  then  remembering  that  they  are  responsible  for  my  plight 
—they  being  society — they  beg  my  pardon  by  giving  me 
money  and  a  pleading  look.  Oho!  You  should  see  the  plead 
ing  looks  they  give  me.  Men  and  women  pass  and  plead  with 
me  not  to  hit  them  too  hard  with  my  slapstick  and  bladder. 
They  plead  with  me  to  spare  them,  not  to  look  at  them.  And 
when  they  give  me  a  dime  it  is  a  gesture  intended  to  annihilate 
me.  The  dime  obliterates  my  misfortunes.  It  annihilates  my 
poverty.  For  an  instant,  having  annihilated  poverty  and  mis 
fortune  with  a  dime,  the  man  or  woman  is  happy.  An  instant 
of  security  strengthens  his  wavering  spirit. 

Thus  my  beggar  whom  I  have  grown  quite  fond  of  as  I 
write.  I  would  write  more  of  him  and  of  the  marvelous  per 
son  in  me  whom  he  is  continually  belaboring  with  his  slap 
stick  and  bladder.  But  I  remember  suddenly  a  man  in  a 
wheel  chair.  A  pale  man  with  drawn  features  and  paralyzed 
legs.  It  was  at  night  in  North  Clark  Street.  Lights  streamed 
over  the  pavements.  People  moved  in  and  out  of  doorways. 

And  this  man  sat  in  his  wheel  chair,  a  board  on  his  lap. 
The  board  was  laden  with  wares.  Trinkets,  pencils,  shoe 
strings,  candies,  tacks,  neckties,  socks.  And  from  the  front  of 
the  board  hung  a  sign  reading,  "Jim's  Store — Stop  and  Shop.*' 

I  remember  this  creature  with  a  sudden  excitement  I 
passed  by  and  bought  nothing.  But  after  five  days  his  face 
has  caught  up  with  me.  A  sallow,  drawn  face,  burning  eyes, 
bloodless  lips  and  skinny  hands  that  fumbled  among  the 
wares  on  his  board.  He  was  young.  Heroic  sentences  come 

279 


to  me.  * 'Jim's  Store — "  Good  hokum,  effective  advertising. 
And  a  strange  pathos,  a  pathos  that  my  beggar  with  one  leg 
and  a  pleading  face  never  had. 

I  do  not  like  cynics.  I  like  Jim  better.  I  like  Jim  and  his 
burning  eyes,  his  skinny  hands,  his  dying  body — and  his  store. 
Fighting— with  the  lights  going  out.  Sitting  in  a  wheel  chair 
with  death  at  his  back  and  despair  crying  from  his  eyes — 
"Come  buy  from  me — a  little  while  longer — I  don't  give  up 
....  another  week.  .  .  .  another  month.  .  .  .  but  I  don't 
give  up.  I'm  still  on  the  turf.  .  .  .  Never  mind  my  dying 
body.  .  .  .  business  as  usual.  .  .  .  business  as  usual.  .  .  . 
Come  buy  from  me.  .  .  .  little  while  longer.  .  .  .  a.  .  .  .** 

But  I  never  gave  a  nickel  to  Jim.  I  passed  up  his  store. 
I  took  him  at  his  word.  He  was  selling  wares  and  I  didn't 
want  any.  But  my  beggar  with  the  one  leg  and  the  inward 
grin  was  selling  absolutions.  .  .  .  And  I  patronized  him. 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  QUESTION 


.  m  w   m 

HI' 


Late  afternoon.  An  hour  more  and  the  city  will  be 
emptying  itself  out  of  the  high  buildings.  Now  the  shoppers 
are  hurrying  home  to  get  dinner  on  the  table. 

A  man  stands  on  the  corner  of  Michigan  Avenue  and 
Adams  Street.  Unwittingly  he  invites  attention.  A  poorly 
dressed  man,  with  a  work-heavy  face  and  coarsened  hands. 
But  he  stands  motionless.  More  than  that,  he  is  not  looking 
at  anything.  His  deep-set  eyes  seem  to  withhold  themselves 
from  the  active  street. 

In  the  suave  spectacle  of  the  avenue  his  motionless  figure 
is  like  an  awkward  faux  pas  in  a  parlor  conversation.  The 
newspaper  man  on  his  way  to  the  I.  C.  station  pauses  to  light 
his  pipe  and  his  eyes  take  in  the  figure  of  this  motionless  one. 

The  newspaper  man  notices  that  the  man  stands  like  one 
who  is  braced  against  something  that  may  come  suddenly  and 
that  his  deep-set  eyes  say,  *'We  know  what  we  know."  There 
are  other  impressions  that  interest  the  newspaper  man.  For  a 
moment  the  motionless  one  seems  a  blurred  little  unit  of  the 
hurrying  crowd.  Then  for  a  moment  he  seems  to  grow  large 
and  his  figure  becomes  commanding  and  it  is  as  if  he  were 
surveying  the  blurred  little  faces  of  the  hurrying  crowd.  This 
is  undoubtedly  because  he  is  standing  still  and  not  looking  at 
anything. 

"Can  I  have  a  light,  please?" 

The  man's  voice  is  low.  A  bit  hoarse.  He  has  a  pipe 
and  the  newspaper  man  gives  him  a  match.  Ah,  the  amiable, 
meaningless  curiosity  of  newspaper  men!  This  one  must  ask 
questions.  It  is  after  work,  but,  like  the  policeman  who  goes 
to  the  movies  with  his  club  still  at  his  side,  he  is  still  asking 
questions. 

"Taking  in  the  sights?" 

The  man,  lighting  his  pipe,  nods  slowly.  Much  too 
slowly,  as  if  his  answer  were  fraught  with  a  vast  significance. 

281 


'I! 
ii| 

I 


ti 

M 

!i 

i! 


i'1 


!!'!!! 


"I  like  it  myself,"  insinuates  the  newspaper  man.  "I  was 
reading  Junius  Wood's  article  on  Bill  Shatov,  who  is  running 
things  now  in  Siberia.  He  quotes  Bill  as  saying  what  he  misses 
most  in  life  now  is  the  music  of  crowds  in  Chicago  streets.  Did 
you  read  that?" 

This  is  a  brazen  lead.  But  the  man  looks  like  a  "red.** 
And  Bill  Shatov  would  then  open  the  talk.  But  the  man  only 
shakes  his  head.  He  says,  "No,  I  don't  read  the  papers  much.** 

Now  there  is  something  contradictory  about  this  man  and 
his  curtness  invites.  He  seems  to  have  accepted  the  presence 
of  the  newspaper  man  in  an  odd  way,  an  uncity  way.  After 
a  pause  he  gestures  slightly  with  his  pipe  in  his  hand  and  says: 

"Quite  a  crowd,  eh?" 

The  newspaper  man  nods.     The  other  goes  on: 

"Where  are  they  going?" 

This  is  more  than  a  question.  There  is  indignation  in  it. 
The  deepset  eyes  gleam. 

"I  wonder,"  says  the  newspaper  man.  His  companion 
remains  staring  in  his  odd,  unseeing  way.  Then  he  says: 

"They  don't  look  at  anything,  eh?  In  a  terrible  hurry, 
ain't  they?  Yeah,  in  a  rotten  hurry.** 

The  newspaper  man  nods.  "Which  way  you  going?** 
he  asks. 

"No  way,"  his  companion  answers.  "No  way  at  all.  I'm 
stand  in'  here,  see?" 

There  is  a  silence.  The  motionless  one  has  become  some 
thing  queer  in  the  eyes  of  the  newspaper  man.  He  has  become 
grim,  definite,  taunting.  Here  is  a  man  who  questions  the 
people  of  the  street  with  unseeing  eyes.  Why?  Here  is  one 
who  is  going  "no  way."  Yet,  look  at  him  closely  and  there  is 
no  sneer  in  his  eyes.  His  lips  hold  no  contempt. 

There  you  have  it.  He  is  a  questioning  man.  He  is 
questioning  things  that  no  one  questions — buildings,  crowds, 
windows.  And  there  is  some  sort  of  answer  inside  him. 

"What  you  talking  to  me  for?" 

282 


The  newspaper  man  smiles  disarmingly  at  this  sudden 
inquiry. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  says.  "Saw  you  standing  still. 
You  looked  different.  Wondered,  you  know.  Just  kind  of 
thought  to  say  hello." 

"Funny,"  says  the  motionless  one. 

"I  got  a  hunch  you're  a  stranger  in  town." 

This  question  the  companion  answers.  "Yeah,  a  stranger. 
A  stranger.  That's  what  I  am,  all  right.  I'm  a  stranger,  all 
right.  You  got  me  right." 

Now  the  motionless  one  smiles.  This  makes  his  face 
look  uncomfortable.  This  makes  it  seem  as  if  he  had  been 
frowning  savagely  before. 

"What  do  you  think  of  this  town?"  pursues  the  news 
paper  man. 

"Think  of  this  town?  Think?  Say,  I  ain't  thinking.  I 
don't  think  anything  of  it.  I'm  just  looking  at  it,  see?  A 
stranger  don't  ever  think,  now,  does  he?  There,  that's  one 
for  you." 

"When'd  you  come  here?" 

"When'd  I  come  here?  When?  Well,  I  come  here  this 
noon.  On  the  noon  train.  Say,  don't  make  me  gabby.  I 
never  gab  any." 

Nothing  to  be  got  out  of  this  motionless  one.  Nothing 
but  a  question.  A  pause,  however,  and  he  went  on: 

"Have  you  ever  seen  such  a  crowd  like  this?  Hurrying? 
Hml  Some  town!  There  used  to  be  a  hotel  over  here  west 
a  bit." 

"The  Wellington?" 

"Yeah.     I  don't  see  it  when  I  pass." 

"Torn  down." 

"Hm!  The  deep-set  eyes  narrow  for  an  instant.  Then 
the  motionless  one  sighs  and  his  shoulders  loosen.  His  face 
grows  alive  and  he  looks  this  way  and  that.  He  starts  to 

283 


walk  and  walks  quickly,  leaving  the  newspaper  man  standing 
alone. 

The  newspaper  man  watched  him.  As  he  stood  looking 
after  him  some  one  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  turned. 
'"Specs"  McLaughlin  of  the  detective  bureau.  "Specs"  rubbed 
his  chin  contemplatively  and  smiled. 

"Know  that  guy?" 

"Who?" 

"No;  just  bumped  into  him.     How  come?" 

"You  might  have  got  a  story  out  of  him,"  "Specs" 
grinned.  "That's  George  Cook.  Just  let  out  of  the  Joliet 
pen  this  morning.  Served  fourteen  years.  Quite  a  yarn  at 
the  time.  For  killing  a  pal  in  the  Wellington  hotel  over  some 
dame.  I  guess  that  was  before  your  time,  though.  He  just 
landed  in  town  this  noon." 

The  detective  rubbered  into  the  moving  crowd. 

"I'm  sort  of  keeping  an  eye  on  him,"  he  said,  and 
hurried  on. 


GRASS   FIGURES 

You  will  sometimes  notice  when  you  sit  on  the  back  porch 
after  dinner  that  there  are  other  back  porches  with  people  on 
them.  And  when  you  sit  on  the  front  steps,  that  there  are 
other  front  steps  similarly  occupied.  In  the  park  when  you 
lie  down  on  the  grass  you  will  see  there  are  others  lying  on 
the  grass.  And  when  you  look  out  of  your  window  you  can 
observe  other  people  looking  out  of  their  windows. 

In  the  streets  when  you  walk  casually  and  have  time  to 
look  around  you  will  see  others  walking  casually  and  looking 
around,  too.  And  in  the  theater  or  church  or  where  you 
work  there  are  always  the  inevitable  others,  always  reflecting 
yourself.  You  might  get  to  thinking  about  this  as  the  news 
paper  reporter  did.  The  newspaper  reporter  got  an  idea  one 
day  that  the  city  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  vast,  broken 
mirror  giving  him  back  garbled  images  of  himself. 

The  newspaper  reporter  was  trying  to  write  fiction  stories 
on  the  side  and  he  thought:  "If  I  can  figure  out  something  for 
a  background,  some  idea  or  something  that  will  explain  about 
people,  and  then  have  the  plot  of  the  story  sort  of  prove  this 
general  idea  by  a  specific  incident,  that  would  be  the  way 
to  work  it" 

Thus,  when  the  reporter  had  figured  it  out  that  the  city 
was  a  mirror  reflecting  himself,  he  grew  excited.  That  was 
the  kind  of  idea  he  had  always  been  looking  for.  But  at 
night  in  his  bedroom  when  he  started  to  write  he  hit  a  snag. 
He  had  thought  he  held  in  his  mind  the  secret  of  the  city. 
Yet  when  he  came  to  write  about  it  the  secret  slipped  away 
and  left  him  with  nothing.  He  sat  looking  out  of  his  bedroom 
window,  noticing  that  the  telephone  poles  in  the  dark 
alley  looked  like  huge,  inverted  music  notes.  Then  he  thought: 
"It  doesn't  do  any  good  to  get  an  idea  that  doesn't  tell  you 
anything.  Just  figuring  out  that  the  city  is  a  mirror  that  reflects 
me  all  the  time  doesn't  give  me  the  secret  of  streets  and  crowds. 

285 


Because  the  question  then  arises:     "Who  am  I  that  the  mirror 
reflects,  and  what  am  I?     What  in  Sam  Hill  is  my  motif?" 

So  the  newspaper  reporter  decided  to  wait  awhile  before 
he  wrote  his  story — wait,  at  least,  until  he  had  found  out  some 
thing.  But  the  next  day,  while  he  was  walking  in  Michigan 
Avenue,  the  idea  he  had  had  about  the  mirror  trotted  along 
beside  him  'like  Isome  homeless  Hector  pup  that  he  couldn't 
shake.  He  looked  up  eagerly  into  the  faces  of  the  crowd 
on  the  street,  searching  the  many  different  eyes  that  moved 
by  him  for  a  "lead.** 

What  the  newspaper  reporter  wanted  was  to  be  able  to 
begin  his  fiction  story  by  saying  something  like  this:  "People 
are  so  and  so.  The  city  is  so  and  so.  Everybody  feels  this 
and  this.  No  matter  who  they  are  or  where  they  live,  or  what 
their  jobs  are  they  can't  escape  the  mark  of  the  city  that  is 
on  them." 

It  was  after  7  o'clock  and  the  people  in  Michigan  Avenue 
were  going  home  or  sauntering  back  and  forth,  looking  into 
the  shop  windows,  with  nothing  much  to  do.  The  street  was 
still  light,  although  the  sun  had  gone.  Hidden  behind  the 
buildings  of  the  city,  the  sun  flattened  itself  out  on  an  invisible 
horizon  and  spread  a  vast  peacock  tail  of  color  across  the  sky. 
In  Grant  Park,  opposite  the  Public  Library,  men  lay  on  their 
backs  with  their  hands  folded  under  their  heads  and  stared 
up  into  the  colors  of  the  sky.  The  newspaper  reporter  stood 
abstractedly  on  the  corner  counting  the  automobiles  that 
purred  by  to  see  if  more  taxicabs  than  privately  owned  cars 
passed  a  given  point  in  Michigan  Avenue.  Then  he  walked 
across  the  street  for  no  other  reason  than  that  there  were  for 
the  moment  no  more  automobiles  to  count.  He  stopped  on 
the  opposite  pavement  and  stood  looking  at  the  figures  that 
lay  on  the  grass  in  Grant  Park. 

The  newspaper  reporter  had  been  lying  for  ten  minutes 
on  his  back  in  the  grass  when  he  sat  up  suddenly  and  muttered : 


"Here  it  is.  Right  in  front  of  me."  He  sat,  looking  intently, 
at  the  men  who  were  lying  on  the  grass  as  he  had  been  a 
moment  before.  And  his  idea  about  the  city's  being  a  mirror 
giving  him  back  images  of  himself  started  up  again  in  his 
mind.  But  now  he  could  find  out  what  these  images  of  himself 
were.  In  fact,  what  he  was.  Whereupon  he  would  have  his 
story. 

Being  a  newspaper  reporter  there  was  nothing  unusual 
in  his  mind  about  walking  up  to  one  of  the  figures  and  talking 
to  it.  For  years  and  years  he  had  done  just  that  for  a  living — 
walked  up  to  strangers  and  asked  them  questions.  So  now 
he  would  ask  the  men  lying  on  their  backs  what  they  were  lying 
on  their  backs  for.  He  would  ask  them  why  they  came  to 
Grant  Park,  what  they  were  thinking  about  and  how  it  hap 
pened  that  they  all  looked  alike  and  lay  on  their  backs  like 
a  chorus  of  figures  in  a  pastoral  musical  comedy. 

The  first  figure  the  newspaper  reporter  approached 
listened  to  the  questions  in  surprise.  Then  he  answered:  "Well 
I  dunno.  I  just  came  into  the  park  and  lay  down/'  The 
second  figure  looked  blank  and  shook  its  head.  The  reporter 
tried  a  third.  The  third  figure  grinned  and  answered:  "Oh, 
well,  nothing  much  to  do  and  the  grass  rests  you  a  bit.** 

The  reporter  kept  on  for  a  few  minutes,  asking  his  ques 
tions  and  getting  answers  that  didn't  quite  mean  anything. 
Then  he  grew  tired  of  the  job  and  returned  to  his  original  place 
on  the  grass  and  lay  down  again  and  stared  up  into  the  colors 
of  the  sky.  After  a  half-hour,  during  which  he  had  thought 
of  nothing  in  particular,  he  arose,  shook  his  legs  free  of  dirt 
and  grass  and  walked  away.  As  he  walked  he  looked  at 
the  figures  that  remained.  The  arc  lamps  on  the  park  shafts 
and  on  the  Greek-like  fountain  were  popping  on  and  the 
avenue  was  lighting  up  like  a  theater  with  the  footlights  going 
on. 

"Funny  about  them,**  the  newspaper  reporter  thought, 
eyeing  the  figures  as  he  moved  away;  "they  lie  there  on  their 

287 


backs  all  in  the  same  position,  all  looking  at  the  same  clouds. 
So  they  must  all  be  thinking  thoughts  about  the  same  thing. 
Let's  see;  what  was  I  thinking  about?  Nothing." 

An  excited  light  came  suddenly  into  the  newspaper 
reporter's  eyes. 

"I  was  just  waiting/'  he  muttered  to  himself.  "And  so 
are  they." 

The  newspaper  reporter  looked  eagerly  at  the  street 
and  the  people  passing.  That  was  it.  He  had  found  the 
word.  "Waiting."  Everybody  was  waiting.  On  the  back 
porches  at  night,  on  the  front  steps,  in  the  parks,  in  the  theaters, 
churches,  streets  and  stores — men  and  women  waited.  Just 
as  the  men  on  the  grass  in  Grant  Park  were  waiting.  The  only 
difference  between  the  men  lying  on  their  backs  arid  people 
elsewhere  was  that  the  men  in  the  grass  had  grown  tired  for  the 
moment  of  pretending  they  were  doing  anything  else.  So 
they  had  stretched  themselves  out  in  an  attitude  of  waiting, 
in  a  deliberate  posture  of  waiting.  And  with  their  eyes  on  the 
sky,  they  waited. 

The  newspaper  reporter  felt  thrilled  as  he  thought  all 
this.  He  felt  thrilled  when  he  looked  closely  at  the  people 
in  Michigan  Avenue  and  saw  that  they  fitted  snugly  into  his 
theory.  He  said  to  himself:  "I've  discovered  a  theory  about 
life.  A  theory  that  fits  them  all.  That  makes  the  background 
I'm  looking  for.  Waiting.  Yes,  the  whole  pack  of  them  are 
waiting  all  the  time.  That's  why  we  all  look  alike.  That's 
why  one  house  looks  like  another  and  one  man  walking  looks 
like  another  man  walking,  and  why  figures  lying  in  the  grass 
look  like  twins — scores  of  twins." 

The  newspaper  man  returned  to  his  bedroom  and  started 
to  write  again.  But  he  had  been  writing  only  a  few  minutes 
when  he  stopped.  Again,  as  it  had  before,  the  secret  had 
slipped  out  of  his  mind.  For  he  had  come  to  a  paragraph 
that  was  to  tell  what  the  people  were  waiting  for  and  he 


couldn't  think  of  any  answer  to  that.  What  were  the  men  in 
the  grass  waiting  for?  In  the  street?  On  the  porches  and 
stone  steps?  They  were  images  of  himself — all  "waiting 
images"  of  himself.  Therefore  the  answer  lay  in  the  question: 
"What  had  he  been  waiting  for?" 

The  newspaper  reporter  bit  into  his  pencil.  "Nothing, 
nothing/'  he  muttered.  "Yes,  that's  it.  They  aren't  waiting 
for  anything.  That's  the  secret.  Life  is  a  few  years  of  sus 
pended  animation.  But  there's  no  story  in  that.  Better  forget 

it" 

So  he  looked  glumly  out  of  his  bedroom  window,  and, 
being  a  sentimentalist,  the  huge  inverted  music  notes  the  tele 
phone  poles  made  against  the  dark  played  a  long,  sad  tune 
in  his  mind. 


.  . 

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